


Dust Jackets

by MadcapRomantic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A/B/O dynaics, Alpha Dean, Angst, Fluff, Highschool AU, M/M, Medication, Omega Castiel, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Therapy, True Mates, detailed descriptions of panic attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-01-17 08:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadcapRomantic/pseuds/MadcapRomantic
Summary: Scars mar the surface, and twist the skin beneath. Castiel knows he’s broken, that the pieces once held together by the idea of him crumbled to dust years ago. But with medication, and therapy, he tries to face the world anew. Such a pity that fate is cruel; into his life saunters one Dean Winchester, a young man with a trail of broken hearts behind him a mile long, standing in the epicenter of the storm that is rumors whispered in hushed tones. One touch is all it takes, the glow of True Mates visible even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the locker room. Castiel finds himself thrown into something he’d sworn he’d never be a part of, while Dean marvels at the gift that he’s been given. After all, what fun would it be if true love were easy, simple, and kind?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a high school AU piece, set in an A/B/O universe, where true mates are a thing. In this work, when true mates touch skin to skin, their hearts/chests illuminate.
> 
> More tags will be added as the story progresses.
> 
> I have been working on this piece, on and off, for a little more than two years. It's thanks a very special fan-artist/author that I fell in love with the A/B/O universe. In addition, her sweet encouragement has meant the world to me, and given me the courage to finally get this out there.
> 
> Please feel free to check out my tumblr, under the same name of MadcapRomantic.
> 
> Trigger warnings will be marked at the end of this and each subsequent chapter, for those of you that need them. Please heed them!

The first time Castiel Novak ever encounters Dean Winchester, he is five years old. There is a chocolate ice cream cone in his hand one moment, and in the next he finds himself looking down at the previously perfectly swirled frozen dairy treat as it sits in the dirt. He lifts his head when he hears the steady sound of sprinting nearing him, and he catches the gaze of a young boy with green eyes and freckles, grass stains on his knees contrasting the blue of his jeans. The boy looks sorry, but Castiel is far too upset that his treat is flecked with pebbles and grass clippings, and before Dean can approach him further, Castiel turns and runs to his mother’s side, wailing, tears already streaming down his face.

The second time Castiel Novak encounters Dean Winchester, he is twelve. He is being carted from a strange house on a stretcher, and the EMTs have to strap him down so he won’t run away, so he won’t hurt himself. Castiel’s voice is naught but gravel as it claws its way out of his throat, but, for the life of him, he cannot stop screaming. One of his eyes is swollen shut, two of his teeth are chipped, three of the fingers on his left hand are broken, and there is a myriad of cigarette burns and whip welts marring his flesh. As the stretcher is loaded up into the back of the ambulance, he finds his gaze locked with that of a strange boy who stands there, mouth agape, brow drawn tight, wearing a look of absolute terror. Castiel is screaming for help, but the doors of the ambulance close before he is offered any by the onlooker.

The third time Castiel Novak encounters Dean Winchester, it is the third day into the last year of his high school career. A few of the buttons of Castiel’s shirt are open, displaying a sliver of the skin of his upper chest to the world. Around it, loosely, rests a shoelace, and upon it hangs a simple key. He’d been on his way back to his gym locker from having just changed in the privacy of one of the toilet stalls. He is, however, sitting on the ground by no accident; there is another student who stands above him, hands on his hips, sneer on his face.

Castiel tries not to panic. He keeps his breathing even, thinks of all of the things he loves in a desperate attempt to keep himself from having a panic attack there on the locker room floor. He thinks of books and warm cookies and soft music and the sound of the wind in the forest. He can deal with this, he knows he can; he wants to be strong, needs to prove to himself that he can be normal. And, if he can’t - _no_ , he won’t think about it. He’d finally convinced his father, not to mention his therapist, that he was capable of returning to school. Homeschooling had become tedious, vexing; Castiel missed other students bustling about, and more than that he missed having friends. If he failed on the third day, he’d never forgive himself.

The young man in front of him doesn’t seem to care, though. He stands over Castiel - looms is a better term for it, really - still sneering. “You should watch where you’re going.” The words are offered like a challenge; taunting, spoken over an unfriendly curling of lips.

Castiel is about to open his mouth to offer an apology. He doesn’t know what he did, not really, but he knows that letting himself become ruffled over the ordeal is likely exactly what the other boy wants; despite being a bit of a shut-in the last few years, Castiel knows when someone is looking for a fight. Be that as it may, someone else speaks before he has the chance to.

“Leave him alone, Michael.” The tone is rich, deep, and while Castiel could easily surmise that the young man in front of him - Michael - is an Alpha, there is no way he could mistake the one who spoke as anything less.

Michael turns his attention to the other speaker, and Castiel looks as well, feeling embarrassed but unable to quell his curiosity. His gaze comes to rest on that of a face bespeckled with freckles, lightly sun-kissed, and a pair of stunning emerald eyes that are flecked with gold. He knows he’s seen the face before, but he can’t place it.

“Really, Winchester? You already pick up another stray for your bunch of burnouts?”

Castiel swallows, looking up at the exchange from his vantage point on the cement flooring. He knows the name Winchester, even if he’d only just been able to pin a face to it. He vaguely remembers roll call in his literature class the last two days; there was a Winchester at the end of the roster, but Castiel had been assigned a seat in the front row and hadn’t turned looked around as each student answered to the call of their last name.

There’s a slightly scrawny boy standing nearby - who Castiel quickly recognizes as Garth, having been paired up with him in yesterday’s basketball drilling - and he reaches out a hand to the Winchester boys’ elbow. “Come on, Dean. Don’t start.”

Ignoring the advice, Dean shrugs in an exaggerated manner, speaking to Michael. “What can I say, man; I don’t like it when asshole Alphas pick fights with guys half their size.” His gaze turns from Michael to Castiel, who is still seated on the floor of the locker room. He reaches his hand out in an offer to help Castiel stand, and smiles gently as he bends low. “You alright there, Cas?”

Castiel swallows. Has he just inadvertently made a friend? Hope, warm and comforting, starts to bloom in his chest as he reaches his hand out, his palm sliding across Dean’s own.

But if he thinks the air in the locker room was oppressive previously, nothing compares to how the very oxygen gets pulled from his lungs as he looks up, mouth agape, at what is happening.

Dean’s chest is glowing.

Slowly, vaguely wondering if his stomach is suddenly leaking into his shoes from the way it drops, Castiel looks down. It’s just as he’d feared; his own chest is gently illuminated, the light waxing and waning in tune with the beat of his heart.

Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand like it’s molten hot. He tries to push himself to his feet, but all he manages at first is to edge himself closer to the row of lockers behind him. The scent of well-worn leather and coriander fills his nose, his lungs, threatens to completely overtake every other sense he possesses. He can taste it on his tongue, in the back of his throat, overridden with gentle notes of pine and the sharp scent of anxiety, the last most likely his own.

No one in the locker room dares to draw breath, and Castiel wishes with every fiber of his being that he had simply listened to his father, that he had stayed home and finished up school in the confines of his room where he was safe with his books and his music and the four confining walls that had kept him safe for the last five years.

He doesn’t remember how he gets to his feet, nor does he recall how he manages to put one foot in front of the other quickly enough that he’s put nearly half the school between himself and the Winchester boy when he realizes where, exactly, he is. The only sanctuary he can think of close by are the small toilet stalls in the bathroom of the boy’s restroom on the west side of the school, and Castiel thanks his lucky stars that lunch period is underway and he’s able to slip in amidst the herd of students, unnoticed. The bathroom is empty save for two other boys who stand against the urinals on the far wall, neither bothering to look up as Castiel enters and makes a beeline straight for the stall at the far end of the room. There’s an out of order sign taped to the door, which is why he chooses it; he wiggles the handle for a brief moment, and he pushes inside of the stall when it gives. He locks the door behind him, turns around, reaches out to flip the lid of the toilet closed, and promptly sits down, drawing his knees up so if someone were to look under the door, he’d be kept from sight.

Panic, all-encompassing and unrelenting, washes over Castiel, but he bites his tongue to keep from crying out. His hands are shaking, even as they are clamped tightly in the fabric of his pants as he tries to draw his knees even closer to his chest. The sound of running water is faint over the din of bodies moving throughout the hallway, but he hears the protesting squeal of unkempt hinges as the door to the bathroom opens and closes.

Finally alone, Castiel can’t help it; he chokes on the sobs that crawl their way out of his throat, and they spill out of him so quickly he almost can’t catch his breath. The walls are closing in and expanding outward all around him, undulating, spinning, rippling, and he shakes with the realization of what, exactly, had happened back in the locker room; he’d found his True Mate.

“It’s not fair,” he whispers into the crook of his arm. The tears at the corners of his eyes are hot and uncomfortable as they well up before spilling down his cheeks.

Castiel bites down on the knuckles of his left forefinger when the door to the bathroom, once again, shrieks as it is opened. He holds his breath as he listens to the shuffle of feet.

When the intruders speak, their voices are low, but since the bathroom is otherwise empty, Castiel can hear them, loud as day.

“Hey, man, you see what Harvelle was wearing today?”

“You’re joking, right? She’s _way_ too hot for you.”

“Hey, a guy can dream, alright?”

“Dude, she hangs out with, like, Ash and Charlie.”

“So?”

“They’re total burnouts.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to take her home to meet my parents. Shit, dude.”

Castiel jumps when the door the bathroom is shoved open so hard it knocks against the wall with a sharp crack. He whimpers into the soft skin of his palm, hoping no one hears the pitiful sound that escapes him.

“Shit!”

“What the hell, Marco?”

“You’re never going to guess what just happened!”

Castiel hears the shuffling of feet, and the sound of a bubbling faucet as it is turned on. He swallows thickly; he knows what’s coming next. How could he not?

“You know that quiet, nerdy kid in our lit class?”

“Dude, there are, like, four people who fit that description. You gotta be more specific.”

“He’s got dark hair and wears sweater-vests.”

“The one with that weird, tan trenchcoat?”

“Yeah, him.”

“What about him?”

“Okay, so, we were changing after gym, and Michael Milton knocks the poor little bastard over - all that macho Alpha bullshit he likes to lord over everybody - and Winchester steps in to-”

“Wait, which one?”

“Which one what?”

“Which Winchester, dumbass?”

“The older one, Dean. So, Winchester steps in and-”

“Wait, isn’t he an Alpha, too? Are you fucking telling me that I missed a _fight_ between them?”

“Dude, shut the fuck and let me finish! Like I was saying, Dean steps in and tells Michael to leave the poor dude alone, and goes to offer him help standing up, and - oh my god, I can hardly believe what happened; it was fucking _priceless_ -”

“What? What happened?”

“Spit it the fuck out!”

The moment of silence that stretches makes Castiel ache. He wants the earth to open and swallow him up, he wants a tornado to rip the ceiling off and steal him into the sky.

“They’re _True Mates_.”

“Oh. My. God.”

The bouts of laughter that erupt from the strangers startle Castiel enough that he jumps. The hiss of breath he manages to pull between his teeth makes his lungs burn, but the cruel cackling of the other students is enough to hide the sound.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

“We talking about the same Dean Winchester here? Like, used to date Rhonda Hurley, currently dating Lisa Braeden, renown heart-breaker _Dean Winchester_?”

“I fucking know!”

Their howling laughter echoes throughout the tiled room, and Castiel wants nothing more in the world than to simply cease existing.

“Oh, man, can you even guess what he’ll say to dump her?!”

“Right?!”

They keep laughing, but Castiel feels his stomach drop even further. He’s going to throw up, he just knows it. Right as he practically leaps off of the toilet lid, the tang of bile invades his mouth. It is by a very narrow margin that he actually is able to get the lid up in time to offer the contents of his stomach to the porcelain altar. By the time he is done throwing up what feels like everything he’s ever eaten, his panic attack has long since abated. It’s too much an effort for his body to focus on two different things when they both already are so taxing. His hands are no longer shaking, but as he rights himself, there is a sharp pain in his side. He frowns, hoping he didn’t just puke so hard he pulled something. The last time that had happened...

He flushes the toilet twice to make sure any evidence of his stunning digestive pyrotechnics is gone.

The sound of the bell reverberates through the halls and echoes into the bathroom, but Castiel can’t bring himself to care. He lowers the lid of the toilet back down, and once more sits upon it, bringing his knees up close to his chest. He wants to cry again, but he fears that will only bring about another panic attack. Instead, he practices all of the exercises his therapist had taught him over the years. He keeps his breathing slow and even. Then, blocking out all other thought from his head, he visualizes, whispering to himself as he does so.

“I’m in the stream in the woods. The water is cold around my feet, but the sun is warm on my back. I can hear birds singing, and I can smell the wood and the moss.”

Another deep breath, and it’s almost real for him. He knows those feelings, sounds, sensations well; he’s spent the better part of the last five years of his life in the woods behind his house. He even has a safe-haven of sorts, that can-

Castiel jolts, not having meant to lean forward with his legs mostly trapped within the circle of his arms, but he rights himself before he falls off of the toilet completely. But, suddenly, he doesn’t feel quite so bad. There is still one place where he can go to be safe, the one place no one else knows about.

For a moment, he contemplates simply walking out of the front door of the school. Fourth period is well underway, he realizes as he glances at his watch, and despite the fact that he’d managed to change back into his street clothes before the entire debacle in the locker room had gone down, he doesn’t have his backpack. It’s hardly a difficult decision to abandon it; all that he had inside of it were a few easily replaceable items: lined paper, pens and pencils, a ruler. Either it had been given to the gym teacher to be kept for him later, or someone had claimed his things as their own. The only article of clothing he’d not put on yet had been his sweater-vest, of which he has a dozen more; he feels no loss there. His cellphone rests quietly in his pocket, the only possession of his that he’d truly miss, and he pats a hand over it to assure himself it’s there.

Out the window it is, then.

The window well is a few feet off the ground, but Castiel’s endless time spent in the quiet of the forest have done nothing but hone his climbing skills. He hops up onto the sinks, being careful to distribute his weight evenly in case they aren’t as sturdy as they might appear, and easily unlatches the lock on the window. Using his upper-body strength, he pulls himself up and onto the windowsill, balancing for a moment on his stomach as he twists over. Carefully, he tests the strength of the rain gutter, then pulls himself upward again, and, with a little wiggling, is able to pull himself up and onto the roof of the school.

September is already giving way to the cold, but the cool air against the sweat on the back of Castiel’s neck is a gentle, momentary reprieve. Keeping his foot-falls as light as he can, he slinks down into a partial crouch and makes his way along the rooftop, toward the northwestern part of the school. Once there, he slowly eases himself between windows, careful to make sure he doesn’t catch anyone’s eye. Then, he slowly sneaks his way toward the bike racks.

His heart is pounding so loud he can hear it, feel it, in his ears. His breath is coming up short, and his hands are shaking as he twirls the numbered dial on his bike lock to the correct digits.

That’s it! The lock opens with a metallic clink, and hardly a heartbeat later Castiel throws his leg over the side of his bike. He’s home free, and soon he’ll be safe in his own space, away from the whims of the cruel world.

But, it seems that fate is a fickle bitch, and Castiel has made her shitlist, because before he can managed to kick off, the sharp call of his name makes his head snap up.

“Cas?”

Dean Winchester is standing less than twenty feet to his right. Castiel’s nose is assaulted as a wave of rich scents wash over him. Coriander, freshly chopped; leather, gently creased and sun-warmed; pine, stiff and sturdy; all of it crashes around Castiel as he stands there, mute.

Castiel finds himself frightened with the rush of adrenaline that surges through him. His instincts push their way to the forefront of his mind, terrifying him in a new and brutal way. His hands shake no longer with the adrenaline of a foreign situation, but with the prospect of promises he can feel Dean writing on his skin with nothing but his eyes.

After all, it’s in his nature, isn’t it?

From behind the both of them, there is a gruff clearing of a throat. The both of them jump, startled, but neither break eye contact. Out of the corner of his vision, Castiel catches sight of the school’s truant officer.

It’s now or never.

Castiel takes off on his bike as fast as he can, shifting gears and gaining momentum as he pedals as fast and as hard as he can. There’s no way he can stick to the roads; that’s too obvious. So, because he knows the woods like the back of his hand, Castiel veers off the asphalt and onto the dusty trail that snakes it’s way through the forest without so much as a heartbeat of hesitation.

Vaguely, he hears someone chasing after him, but whether it’s Dean or the officer, Castiel doesn’t care. His instincts, the part of his wiring that runs bone deep, kick in. Unless he wants to be caught, he won’t be. Such is the Omega way, dating back far longer than anyone could ever hope to remember. Society has done well to progress past the archaic laws and traditions of the past, but some things simply can’t be unlearned.

It’s almost three miles to his home, riding through the back trails as he is, but Castiel doesn’t mind. If he’d kept to the road, it’s less than one, but the flora of the forest speak to him in ways he knows are lost to most, and it comforts him in little ways. He knows the whispers of the trees, the gentle sway of the branches; they are welcoming sounds. Where people have broken him, worn him down over the years, the forest builds him back up.

He makes it to his secret place, his favorite place, just as he starts to crash. He is off of his bike before it’s even fully stopped, and fumbling for the key on the shoestring he wears around his neck with fingers that have fallen numb. Breath after breath is sucked into his lungs, greedily, as Castiel tries to keep himself upright long enough to get through the door. The lock falls out of his grasp and to the floor, his knees trembling with each step he manages. He doesn’t hold out for long; he has to crawl the last few feet to the mattress pressed against the side wall.

Once there, he leans against the far wall, carefully prying one of the bricks free. His hands are still shaking as he plunges them into the crevice, pulling free an orange prescription bottle and pawing at the cap. His damn fingers won’t cooperate, but it’s only a matter of time before Castiel all but claws it off. He pops two of the tabs into his mouth and doesn’t bother to grope around for one of the water bottles he knows are nearby, swallowing them with little effort, completely dry.

But what if it’s not enough? What if this is it, what if this is like the last time and they have to haul him, screaming, tied to the stretcher-

Two more pills go down, and Castiel recaps the bottle before he can talk himself into taking more. Four is already too many, he knows, but he wants it to stop, _needs_ it to stop; the world, his heart beat. Something. Anything. _Everything._

He knows the screaming will be next. It always is. He pulls one of the pillows toward his chest before inhaling sharply, pressing it to his face.

One beat of his heart.

Two beats of his heart.

Three beats of his heart.

There it is, the wail of a dying creature, the sound of a broken person - heart, mind, and body. Even with the pillow to act as a muffler, the sound of his voice is loud to his own ears.

He screams so much, so loud, that the sounds get caught in his throat, and Castiel coughs and dry-heaves until he feels the onset of a migraine incoming. The light filtering in through the crack of the open door disappears when he throws one of the other pillows to close it. He may have stopped screaming only because the intense pounding behind his eyes steals his attention, but the tremors remain. They are always the last thing to leave him after a panic attack; he goes in trembling, and leaves the same way.

After a time, feeling slowly returns to his extremities. He fishes his cellphone out of his pocket, and it takes him several tries before his fingers bring up the right menu. The ringing of the phone makes Castiel’s head ring in a different manner, but he’s at a loss as of what else he can possibly do, who would understand even a sliver of what he’s going through. His prayers are answered when the sweet, rich voice of his older brother tumbles through the speaker.

“Hey little bro, how’s school? Calling to tell me what a success you already are, after only three days?”

Castiel hiccups, shuddering. He wants to answer, but he worries his voice is gone completely. The only word that is able to fall over his tongue is his brother’s name. “ _Gabriel_.”

There’s a beat of silence, and he can practically hear his brother’s heart break. “Cassie, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“ _Gabriel_ ,” he cries, the name half muffled into the pillow. A new, fresh wave of anxiety crashes over him.

“Hey, hey, hey; you’re stronger than this. You’re the strongest person I know. Come on, now. It’s gonna be okay. Whatever it is, it’s gonna be okay.”

“Gabriel, _you don’t understand_ ; I found my True Mate.”

And there he is, screaming again, his consciousness straining to leave his physical body through mere sound.

His voice is truly wrecked by the time he manages to stop himself, and he thinks there might be blood in the phlegm that he coughs up. He hears Gabriel, still on the other end of the line, and he’s singing just like he used to, when Castiel was little and couldn’t sleep. Castiel doesn’t recognize the tune nor the words, but the effort, the love behind the gesture, warms him despite the frigid cold that has seeped into his bones.

The song draws to an end, and Castiel can hear the rumble of Gabriel’s car. “Are you coming home?”

“Of course, dummy.”

Castiel sniffles, knowing he looks as pathetic as he sounds. “Thank you.”

“You in your Sanctuary?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think... Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

He wants to say no, because he worries that if he recounts the story out loud, it will somehow make it _more_ true, but he’s tired and sore and knows Gabriel only asks because he loves him. “Some jerk Alpha pushed me down in the locker room after gym.”

“Do you think they knew?”

Castiel sighs. “No, I never skip my suppressants, never forget the scent blockers. I changed in the toilet stall, anyway, so it’s not like anyone would have been able to see my scars.”

“And when they touched you-”

“No, it wasn’t him. Someone else, another Alpha, stepped in. He reached out to help me up and-”

“So it is a he? He have a name?”

For a moment, Castiel struggles. “Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

Gabriel drops an f-bomb, and Castiel cringes.

“You... You know him?”

Gabriel sighs. “Not directly; friend of a friend kind of thing, but I know his reputation and the company he keeps.”

Castiel’s eyes ache and burn, and when he raises a hand to wipe the tears from his face, he yelps in pain.

“What’s wrong, what happened?”

Castiel sits up. “Nothing. I touched my eye; I think I might have popped a blood vessel.”

“Shit, Cassie.”

Miserably, Castiel sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You know better than to apologize to me. I’m about fifteen minutes away. You think you can make it to the house on your own?”

For a moment, Castiel thinks about his answer to his brother’s question. He’s cried enough to drown himself twice over, he’s sure, and his throat is raw, his voice is hoarse. But he’s not tied to a table in a poorly-lit basement, he’s not in so much pain he will pass out, not naked and trembling and alone. He hears Gabriel’s breath, knows that his brother is on his way home, that they will pile all of the blankets onto the L-shaped couch in their basement and watch hokey movies, laugh at the jokes Mike Nelson and his robot pals throw at the screen. There will be a bowl of popcorn between them, and a mug of hot-cocoa in each of their hands, and no matter what happens, for a brief moment in time, Castiel will be warm and happy and safe. The thought pushes him.

“I can make it.”

“Dad at the house?”

“Think so. He doesn’t leave for a few days.”

“I’m gonna call him and let him know I’m coming. You okay if I fill him in?”

Castiel nods, a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else. He forgets that his brother isn’t in the room with him, but it’s only a few seconds before he speaks. “Yeah.”

“You want me to call you back when I’m done?”

When Castiel answers, he’s already standing up and brushing the dirt off of his pant legs. He grimaces when he sees the hole he’s managed to tear in the fabric that covers his right knee. “No. I think I want to listen to the forest.”

“If you’re not home by the time I get there, I’m coming to find you, alright?”

“Thank you, Gabriel.” Castiel knows that his fatigue is obvious in his words, but he means them no less. He ends the call with a swipe of his thumb, slides his phone back into his pocket, and kicks around at the crunchy layer of fallen leaves outside of the door. It doesn’t take long for his foot to find the padlock he’d dropped earlier, and in no time at all the door is locked and he’s picking his bike up off of the soft earth.

It’s still daylight out. A glance at his watch and Castiel finds that it’s hardly half an hour after school ended; had he taken the bus, he’d be home in a few minutes anyway. He takes a moment to worry over the prospect of the school’s truant officer calling his father, but he lets the concern for that particular situation simply melt away. He will deal with that hurdle as it comes; his mind is already over-encumbered.

The breeze that makes the branches twist overhead is light and airy, almost as if the trees themselves are trying to ease Castiel’s mind. He lets the song of the forest wrap around him as he walks his bike next to him.

Gabriel is the only other soul who knows where Castiel’s Sanctuary is. In fact, it had been Gabriel who had named it, who had helped Castiel carry the used mattress so far into the woods in the first place. There is a pang of guilt that sits heavily in his stomach when he thinks of what Gabriel would say were he to know of his little brother’s stash of meds, hidden away by a loose brick. But the fear of what would happen were Castiel to go without them - well, that’s far more terrifying.

The division of where the forest gives way to the area that makes up his back yard is nothing more than where trees stop and grass flourishes. Castiel walks past the tire swing, leaning his bike against the side of the garden shed. Part of him wants to panic again, run into the forest and simply never come home, but he loves his brother too much to try such a selfish stunt. He knows that there will be disappointment in his father’s eyes when they first sit down to talk about what had happened, but he knows his dad loves him too, and only ever looks out for his best interest. Without the support of his brother and his father, Castiel knows he would be lost. So, he takes a deep breath, steadies his nerves, opens the sliding glass door, and steps into the place he calls his home.

“Dad?”

“In here, son,” his dad’s voice calls out from the living room.

“Gabriel called you, right? He said he’d be-”

Castiel is frozen in shock as he rounds the corner and steps into the living room. His dad is seated in his favorite armchair, and there are three people sitting on the couch across from him; a man, a woman, and the very person Castiel was planning to spend the rest of his life avoiding: Dean Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: graphic description of a panic attack, mentions/descriptions of past abuse, and self-medication/allusions to possibility of medication abuse (brief). If you feel there is something in the story that I have not adequately tagged for, please feel free to comment and I will rectify accordingly ASAP.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel isn't the only one faced with inner turmoil over the idea of finally meeting his mate...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any triggers and/or warnings will be placed at the end of the chapter to avoid possible spoilers. If you feel I have missed a tag or warning, please let me know and I will change it as I see fit.

Dean is off of the couch and across the room so fast that he nearly gives himself vertigo. He’s reaching out toward Castiel, almost unaware of the angry string of words that falls out of him. The white of Castiel’s left eye is nearly completely red, spiderwebbed in a messy pattern, and it makes Dean seethe. “Did Michael do this to you? Did he follow you home? Did he-”

His questioning accusations are cut short, however. Much to Dean’s surprise, Castiel yelps and leaps out of the way of the outstretched hand. Dean grimaces when Castiel’s back slams into the bookcase behind him. Worse yet, when Dean takes another step toward Castiel, he watches as the boy shrinks away from him further, flinching as if Dean wasn’t offering a gentle hand but instead one that was poised to strike him.

“Cas?” There are a myriad of questions on the edge of Dean’s tongue.

Castiel won’t meet his eyes, standing an arm’s length away from Dean, who shifts his weight from one foot to the other, absolutely unsure of what to do. His Alpha instincts aren’t something that he’s easily overpowered by, but he feels as though he’s been stretched tight, like a rubber band drawn taut and thin, trembling under the strain of repressing the desire to surge forward and pull Castiel into the circle of his arms. He inhales deeply, without really meaning to, and scents the air; it’s thick with anxiety and fear, but Dean knows that much is obvious to any onlooker.

Dean draws another slow breath, then offers up his empty palms, hoping that Castiel might see how little of a threat Dean is trying to be. He tries to speak, tries to ask questions, but the words settle in the back of his throat, piling on top of one another until Dean forces them down with a loud gulp.

“Please,” is all Dean is offered, little more than a whimper. Castiel won’t meet his eyes, though they are darting every which way.

Despite his instincts - the ravenous ache in his chest that constricts even further at Castiel’s plea - Dean takes a step back. His keen ears pick up a shaky breath that Castiel’s dad, Chuck, had apparently been holding.

“Cassie?” Chuck’s voice is soft, gentle. “Why don’t you come over here?”

Dean watches as Castiel nods his head ever so slightly, biting at his lower lip before he attempts to flatten himself even further against the wall behind him.

Castiel stumbles, however, his foot catching on the corner of the bookcase, and he pitches forward. Dean is already there with an outstretched arm, and he catches Castiel with one hand around his middle, the other gripping his wrist. They both freeze at the contact of their skin, for it’s not more than a second later that a gentle glow emanates from beneath their shirts, illuminating the space between them.

Castiel wrenches his wrist from Dean’s grasp, then surprises the entire room by shoving the heels of his palms forcefully into Dean’s chest. Dean, startled by the movement, lets his hands fall away, and with a thump that makes him cringe, he finds himself looking down at Castiel who is nearly completely prone on the floor, his elbows propping him up slightly.

As if that isn’t shocking enough, in the next moment there is a blur of motion, and suddenly Dean is stumbling backwards, knocking the back of his knees against the end table and nearly spilling over. He rights himself easily enough, but as he does he comes to realize that there is suddenly a body in the space between he and Castiel.

The stranger may be a bit short in stature, but the primal glow of gold Dean catches in his eyes proves he’s also an Alpha. Not for the first time in the last several moments, and what he is sure won't be the last for the ones to come, Dean tramples down his instincts; though there is a stranger standing between he and his True Mate, the newcomer's scent isn't too far removed from those that linger in the house. Though they don’t look much alike, and despite the fact that they’d never met before, Dean is positive that the man in front of him must be Castiel’s brother.

Keeping his palms spread and his hands up, Dean continues to try to appear non-threatening.

Lucky for him that Chuck’s voice cuts through the thick tension in the room. “Gabriel, take Castiel upstairs.”

Gabriel’s upper lip curls back, a low growl emanating from him.

“ _Gabriel_.” The second time his name is spoken, Gabriel reacts. He inhales sharply, holds it, then lets it out, his nostrils flaring with the effort. Slowly, he backs away from Dean and reaches down to help his brother off the floor.

As soon as the two of them are out of sight, everyone in the living room lets out a collective breath. Dean listens intently to the footsteps that slowly grow quieter. His heart is beating what feels like a million times a minute, and the almost-numbing tingle of adrenaline surges through his limbs. When he turns to face the couch, he sees that his father is standing, placing himself in front of his mother to shield her from any potential danger.

Chuck clears his throat, and Dean watches as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed tight. He gestures for both of the Winchester men to take their seats, who do.

As Dean sits on the couch beside his mother, their knees bump together, and Mary offers her son’s thigh a gentle squeeze. The warmth of her palm doesn’t do much to melt the ice Dean swears is running through his veins in place of blood, but the gesture is appreciated all the same.

For a long moment, Chuck regards the strangers in his home. Dean forces himself to keep from fidgeting under the scrutinizing look that he’s being measured with. Finally, with a preambling sigh, Chuck beings to speak. “Like I was saying before, I’m afraid that Castiel isn’t in any shape to take on a mate at this time. These past several years, he’s been dealing with some...”

The way Chuck pauses makes Dean clench his jaw tight to keep from grinding his teeth together. Chuck seems to find the word he’s looking for, though to Dean it looks as if it is costly. “Difficulties. He’s been home schooled, and likes to keep himself isolated. He’s very - how should I put it? - unique.”

Shaking his head, Dean sighs. It’s almost impatient. “You saw it - you saw the glow. Mr. Shirley. We’re True Mates.”

Grimacing, Chuck shakes his head. “It goes far deeper than I’m comfortable speaking about here.”

Mary leans forward, and Dean holds his breath. “John and I - we’re True Mates, too. It’s rare, sure, but not as rare as most people seem to think. And one of the first things we figured out after we found out we were True Mates was that being apart can not only put us in emotional distress, but it can lead to physical pain.”

The look that washes over Chuck’s face makes Dean flinch. “I’m aware, Mrs. Winchester. My son’s mother and I were True Mates.” There is pain in Chuck’s voice, in his eyes; a tired sadness that looks as though it’s made itself right at home upon the features of his face.

“I don’t mean to push, sir, but don’t you think this kind of thing could be beneficial?” Dean spares a glance at his parents. “The bond’s been made regardless of what either of us want, but there’s an upside to it; if we’re apart, sure, the bond can end up hurting us, but if we stick close to one another, it’s the opposite. There’s a healing effect to it. Whatever Cas is dealing with, this might help him.”

Chuck scratches at the stubble on his chin for a moment. He looks all three of the Winchesters in the eyes, one after another, before, finally, he sighs. “What I am about to tell you doesn’t leave this room, do you understand?”

Dean casts another glance at his parents, this one curious. They nod. He turns back to Chuck and simply waits.

“Castiel is an Omega.”

Dean didn’t think it was at all possible for the tension in the room to increase tenfold, but, somehow, it manages to do just that. He almost chokes on little else than the air he breathes. “You’re joking,” he finally says, when no one else will break the silence in the room.

Chuck shakes his head slowly, and Dean turns his head downward, resting his forehead on his palms and his elbows against his knees.

“He’s one of twelve male Omegas in North America,” Chuck goes on. “He’s been on heavy suppressants ever since he presented. Now that he’s bonded to you, Dean, people might figure his true nature out for themselves; it’s not too hard of conclusion to draw. It’s pretty much unheard of for an Alpha like yourself to find the bond in another Alpha, let alone with someone of the same gender.”

“And with that information,” Mary sighs, heavily, “Castiel can be denied scholarships for college, or even a job, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“For as far as we as a society have managed to come in regards for the treatment of Omegas, there’s still a huge gap for improvement.”

 _I’ve potentially ruined his life, and all I had to do was touch him_. Dean feels like he’s going to be sick. He must look the part, too, because Chuck points over his shoulder at the hallway. “Up the stairs, first door on the right.”

Dean doesn’t waste any time, practically rocketing off the couch. He’s angry at himself, despite knowing that it will change nothing. He stands, bent in half, hovering over the toilet for several minutes before he comes to realize that no matter how his stomach is churning, there is nothing in it to throw up. He lowers the seat back down and flushes more out of habit than anything, and takes a moment to wash his hands.

The soap smells like cinnamon, and he realizes that he’d been able to scent it on Castiel earlier that day, when they’d first touched. Now, the scent makes him dizzy. He rinses his hands under the faucet over and over, trying to rid himself of it, but, even as he dries his hands, Dean knows the scent will linger if not on his hands, than in his nose. Biology is a cruel mistress; now a part of him smells like his mate, his True Mate, and some deep-seated Alpha instinct within him wants to howl with delight.

Dean exits the bathroom, and his ears catch the harsh inhale and exhale of someone who can’t seem to regain their breath. From his vantage point in the hallway, he only has to crane his neck just slightly in order to look into what he realizes is Castiel’s bedroom. Castiel, seated atop his bed, is held in the tight embrace of his older brother, who is gently running one of his hands up and down Castiel’s back in a comforting gesture.

“Why me?” Castiel asks into Gabriel’s shoulder, his voice like gravel.

Gabriel doesn’t offer an explanation, just a promise. “It’s gonna be okay, Cassie.”

Dean wonders if the constricting feeling in his chest signifies that his heart is breaking, shattering into little but dust, down to gritty molecules; he doesn’t have the slightest idea of what else the feeling could possibly be. And, somehow, that makes it even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: none.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel has come too far to give up now, so he tries again. He knows things won't be easy, and Dean doesn't seem to want to make them hard, either, but after years of caution, Castiel isn't sure if he's ready to open up just yet, especially since he doesn't know what kind of alpha Dean is...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any triggers and/or warnings will be placed at the end of the chapter to avoid possible spoilers. If you feel I have missed a tag or warning, please let me know and I will change it as I see fit.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Castiel?”

For what feels like is the millionth time, Castiel sighs at his father. “I don’t have any hope of surviving college if I can’t deal with a single year of high school.”

“But there are plenty of great schools with long-distance or online courses.”

When next Castiel speaks, he doesn’t meet his father’s eyes, instead staring out of the car window. He tries to keep his voice steady. “I can’t hide in my room forever. I’m eventually going to have to find a job, get my own place.”

“But-”

“Just let me try.” Castiel endeavors to look confident when he turns to look at his father.

Chuck is silent for a moment, his forehead knitted in thought. He sighs, shaking his head. “Alright. But at least stay home another day; that way, you have the weekend and you can go back to school on Monday, after you’ve rested.”

“Another few days isn’t going to matter. And besides, I have detention today. I skipped my afternoon classes on Wednesday.”

Finally, Chuck relents. He pats his son’s shoulder, and offers him a smile, though it’s tight. There is still doubt in his eyes, but Castiel’s mind has been made up.

Sure, Wednesday had been one hell of an adrenaline trip, not to mention a few steps - miles, more like - backwards in terms of how far he’d come in the last several years. But, Castiel is hell bent and determined to at least  _ try _ . He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t. There is rhyme and reason behind it, of course - he isn’t reckless, isn’t seeking cheap thrills, and he doesn’t like feeling helpless. But if he lets the past rule over every action of his present, then his future was bleak at best. That’s what his therapist had said, anyway, and the phrase has stuck, resonated with him. If it turned out he really couldn’t make it in the world, he would at least be proud of himself for trying. And not trying in a half-assed sort of manner; if he didn’t give it his all, he knew he’d never forgive himself, that it would be worse than not trying at all.

Gabriel had stayed with them for the night, skipping his classes the next day. It would be a lie if Castiel said that his brother’s encouragement didn’t help. He’d told Castiel that he was glad he at least tried, and before Gabriel left to head back to school, Castiel told him he was going to try again. The rib-crushing hug Gabriel had awarded him had only cemented the decision in Castiel’s head.

Once Gabriel was gone, however, and Castiel was curled under the blankets of his bed did it finally happen; his crash. Crashing had been hard. It’s been years since Castiel’s last regression, and while panic attacks had been few and far between until a few days prior, Castiel had felt like he was coping well. It had been such an effort not to completely lose himself, but he’d endured. He’d done it.

He smiles at his dad, mustering up what little courage he has. “If it’s too much, I’ll call it quits.”

Another grimace from his father, who changes the subject. “You have your medication?”

Castiel nods, patting his pocket. “You made sure the office knows about it, right? I’m not going to get in trouble if I end up needing to take some in class?”

“Yes, I made sure they know about it. The principal CC’d me when he sent out the email to all of your teachers.”

“And you’re going to pick me up after school?”

“After detention,” Chuck corrects, though there is a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “And to think,” he jests, “here I thought I’d have it easy with you after all the crap I had to deal with because of Gabriel. Skipping class, Castiel; you’re such a delinquent.”

Castiel actually smiles. “I’m sure you were the model student when you were my age.”

Chuck smiles, fondly. “I’m at home today, so if something happens, just call me. I can be here in five minutes, alright?”

“Thanks, dad.” Castiel tries to put as much appreciation and affection into those two simple words as he can.

Chuck seems to hear it, because he offers his son another smile.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

If Castiel ever thought he knew what the word awkward meant, he was wrong. His level of discomfort was so high, he doubted even mathematicians could give it a representation in numerical form. The blatant staring mixed with whispers spoken from lips hidden behind hands made Castiel seriously begin to doubt he had the means to continue.

The only one not looking at him is Dean Winchester, who seems to be making the effort to not even allow himself to turn his body even slightly towards Castiel. Part of Castiel is happy for it. Another part, one that he wants to rip out of himself and stomp into the ground, feels almost guilty about the matter.

“Hey, buddy. You doing okay?”

With a start, Castiel turns. It takes him a few seconds to place the face to a name, but when he recognizes the fellow student, Castiel can’t tell if he’s relieved or not to see him. “Garth.”

The gangly teenager smiles at him, like he’s happy that Castiel remembers his name. “You seem a little out of sorts. Just wanted to make sure you’re doing alright.”

Castiel has to swallow a few times before he feels his voice is in any shape to make an appearance. “I’m fine.”

Garth’s face falls. But Castiel doesn’t see pity on his face; only a kind, gentle look that tells him Garth only asked because he’s actually worried.

Looking to the floor, Castiel sighs. “I’ll be fine. Eventually.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Garth shrug. “Even though we don’t know each-other very well, my ears are always open.”

Not sure what to say to such an offer, Castiel merely nods his head to indicate he’d heard Garth’s offer. He wants to think that kindness isn’t such a rare thing that he should be surprised when it’s offered to him, but deep wounds have left their scars upon not merely his skin but on his soul, too.

Thankfully, the subject is changed. “We’re doing tennis drills. You wanna partner up like the other day?”

That actually earns a hint of a smile from Castiel, and he nods again, twirling his racket in his hands.

The entire class is otherwise uneventful; hitting tennis balls between one another isn’t something either Castiel nor Garth seem very skilled at, but the near constant physical activity helps keep his mind off of other things, like the abundance of over-curious looks being shot his way.

Too bad gym can’t last all day. Ugh, Castiel wants to roll his eyes at himself over such a thought, but as he’s leaving the locker room after class, that’s what he’s thinking. 

He cringes when he hears a female voice call out his name, turning around because there is hardly anyone in the hallway yet and there’s no way he can pretend he didn’t hear her. Castiel watches patiently as the girl comes to a stop hardly an arm’s length away. “Sorry,” she smiles, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

There must be a careful regard he carries about him because the girl smiles a little wider, trying to look friendlier. “I’m Lisa.”

_ Oh _ , Castiel easily pieces together.  _ Dean Winchester’s girlfriend. _

“Look,” she sighs, her smile waning just the slightest bit. “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, or to have you hear it from somebody else that I’m mad at you or something.”

There it is again, the problem Castiel has been so valiantly trying to push away from him. He opens his mouth to speak, but Lisa cuts him off.

“No, seriously. I’ve already heard a few people talking about what happened and trying to paint me as some crazy, evil ex or something. I just want you to know that Dean’s a good guy.”

Castiel doesn’t offer her anything because he doesn’t have the slightest idea what he should say. He thinks maybe he should nod or something, or maybe just walk away, but he doesn’t. Lisa’s smile doesn’t look fake, at least not to him.

“Things were...” she grimaces a bit when she pauses. “Things weren’t perfect between us. I don’t think we would have lasted much longer anyway, to be honest.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Castiel mumbles, hoping it sounds right. He hates situations like this, hates being put on the spot. He’s never been good with people, not when he was little, and certainly not after the  _ incident _ .

“No, no, Castiel, it is what it is. I just want you to know that, despite what crap is being spread around, I’m totally not mad at you. I’m honestly just really glad that someone I care about gets a chance like this. I mean, seriously - _ True Mates _ ? It’s not impossible, sure, but you almost never hear about it happen this young, right? It’s like something out of the movies.”

This is the part where Castiel sighs, and turns away from Lisa. “Look, I appreciate you dispelling any rumors of animosity that might have been aimed at me, but you should know that Dean and I won’t... we won’t work out.”

Lisa is surprised, and when Castiel steals a glance at her face, he thinks he sees a sliver of anger.

“I don’t understand,” she finally counters as she raises a hand to place on her hip as she cants it to one side.

Castiel cringes, noting the difference in her tone, how it’s become almost accusatory. He’s right; that was a flash of anger. Well, she clearly wasn’t lying when she had talked about  _ someone she cares for _ .

“I should have known,” she finally offers.

There is ice in Castiel’s veins when he looks up to meet her eyes. His mind orbits, faster than the speed of light, around all of the possibilities behind her words;  _ does she know? How could she possibly know? Then again, how could she possibly not? It was obvious, wasn’t it? The way he carries himself, the way he flinches away from nearly all instances of physical contact; of course everyone can tell how broken he is, how used _ -

“You think you’re too good for him, don’t you?”

For a moment, Castiel feels like he’s been slapped. And then, almost painfully, a burst of air escapes him, taking the form of a strained laugh.

The sound causes Lisa to jump, and her indignation makes way for blatant confusion.

“I don’t think I’m too good for him, Lisa,” Castiel says, shaking his head, dropping his eyes. The show of submission is mere a force of habit than anything else; his Omega nature runs deep, can’t always be overpowered. “I’m not too good for  _ him _ ; he’s too good for  _ me _ .”

Lisa stands there, obviously dumbstruck, completely silent. Apparently, she hadn’t been prepared for Castiel’s version of the truth.

When Castiel looks up, however, his stomach almost climbs out of his throat. Behind Lisa, Dean Winchester is standing in the middle of the hallway, backpack slung over one shoulder, face completely unreadable.

Panic starts to gather within him, his fingers and toes suddenly feeling fuzzy, like they’d fallen asleep. What’s said has been said, though, and Castiel knows that there is nothing else he can do; he was honest, even if he hadn’t meant to be so honest in front of Dean.

So, because he doesn’t know what else he could possibly do, Castiel turns on his heel, adjusts his backpack, and starts walking away. He’s shaking. He’s shaking so much that he is surprised at his own strength; he manages to put one foot in front of the other all the way across the school, to the bathroom in the library. It’s only there he finds the solitude he seeks. He twists the latch on the door of the farthest stall, puts the lid of the toilet down, and sits. With trembling hands, he pulls out the pillbox from his pocket, frees his water bottle from the mesh-netting on the side of his backpack, and downs two of the six capsules. The box closes with a sharp snap. He slides it into his pocket once more, his water bottle following suit, slipping right back into the netting on his bag.

And then Castiel waits.

And he waits.

And he waits.

And when he realizes that nothing is happening, that nothing is going to happen, he almost cries from the sheer joy of it. Today, right now, he’s  _ okay _ . He’s sitting, alone, on a toilet in the boy’s room of his school’s library during his lunch period, and even though that’s nearly the single saddest thing he’s ever heard, he can’t find even a second to muster up enough care to give a damn because he’s  _ okay _ .

He’s managed his panic attack. He’s held a conversation over a topic that was terrifying for him, held his ground, confronted his fears, and he’s  _ okay _ .

Castiel is ecstatic. For the first time in years, he feels like a human being. Maybe he can function in the real world. Maybe his therapist was right; maybe he really  _ is _ stronger than he gives himself credit for.

He leaves the sanctity of the stall and cups his hands under the faucet of the sink so that he can rinse his face. When he looks up, studies himself in the mirror, he smiles. He smiles to himself because of himself, and, for the first time in what feels like ever, Castiel is okay being Castiel.

It’s still lunch when he leaves the bathroom, but he doesn’t find himself hungry, so instead of heading to the cafeteria, he browses the fiction section of the library. He’s mindful of the granola bar he has in his bag, and resolves to eat it on the way to his next class, when he’s out of the library, since there are signs everywhere indicating that food is not allowed.

Castiel is letting his fingers brush over the spines of the books lining one of the shelves when he nearly bumps into someone. He’s startled, considering he hadn’t heard anyone coming. When he takes a step back, he looks up, an apology already on his lips: “sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

The girl in front of him is wearing skinny jeans, and has a leather jacket over a mangled-looking t-shirt with what Castiel can only assume is the name of some band he’s never heard of on it. The makeup around her eyes is dark, and it almost reminds him of smoke. She offers him a crooked smile, but there’s a glint in her gaze that has Castiel shifting uncomfortably.

“So you’re it, huh?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Winchester’s True Mate.”

Castiel is taken by surprise by the statement, and fidgets nervously for a moment.

The girl leans her face in toward him, and before Castiel has a chance to turn and remove himself from the situation, he’s being scented. All of the panic that he’d overcome in the bathroom suddenly begins clawing at him, ice spider-webbing from the base of his neck, trickling down into every appendage until he’s frozen, rooted to the floor by limbs unwilling to budge.

The girl smiles as she leans back, out of Castiel’s bubble of personal space. “You two have been the talk of the whole school. I mean, finding your True Mate this young? That’s the stuff Hollywood makes the big bucks on. So, why is it that I don’t smell him on you?”

Castiel swallows, and the sound seems too loud, especially in the muted quiet of the library.

Tilting her head to one side, the girl gives Castiel a look that he can only interpret to be pity, but if he’s honest, it looks too dark, as if there is something she is hiding beneath it..

There’s a growl, low and throaty, off to Castiel’s left, and both he and the strange girl jump out the sound, craning their necks in search of the source. And, much to Castiel’s utter dread, it’s none other than Dean Winchester.

Dean speaks before either of them have the chance to. “Back off, Meg.”

The girl - Meg - smiles crookedly, like she suddenly gets the punchline of a joke told days before. “He’s not wearing your scent, Winchester. I’m well within my rights to-”

Dean takes a step closer and growls again, and Castiel sees a glistening glitter of gold flash though green eyes. “And I’d be well within mine. I’m not gonna tell you again;  _ back of _ f.”

Castiel watches Meg out of the corner of of his vision as she blusters. Her cheeks redden, and she sputters a bit, but ultimately she turns on her heel, dark waves of hair bobbing as she storms off.

Dean watches until she disappears completely from sight. Then, he turns to Castiel, his expression softer. His cheeks are pinkened, and he, much to Castiel’s surprise, looks somewhat chastened. “Sorry,” he finally offers. “I just - I didn’t follow you or anything, but when I saw her, I could smell - but, not to say...” Dean scrunches his face tight, and Castiel notices the dusting of freckles that grace the bridge of his nose, extending gently to his cheeks, and how the blush makes them stand out. “Sorry.”

And Castiel can’t find it in himself to be mad, because here, directly in front of him, an Alpha is stumbling over his words, almost as if he’s intimidated by him, by Castiel, an Omega. 

“Thank you.”

Whatever words Dean must have been expecting to hear, they obviously, from the look that covers Dean’s face, hadn’t been what Castiel had offered. He meets Castiel’s eyes with an expression of wonder, his mouth hanging open slightly.

“I’m not... I’m not sorry just for that, either.”

When Castiel doesn’t say anything, Dean takes a deep breath, scrubbing at the short hairs on the back of his neck, obviously picking his words carefully. “I know I’m not-”

The shrill harping of the bell makes the both of them jump. It is Castiel, however, who is the first to recover. He gives Dean a rueful look before he scuttles his way through the library as fast as he can manage without actually running.

Science isn’t his favorite class, but neither is it his least-favorite, so Castiel settles himself into his seat near the far wall hardly a minute before the bell rings again, signaling the start of class. Their teacher is missing, in his place a perky young woman wearing a pink cardigan and a matching bow in her hair. She instructs them to work from their textbooks, and Castiel is relieved for it; he doesn’t have to interact with anyone, he doesn’t have to be put on the spot. He easily falls into the simple work of short-essay answers about hypothetical chemical reactions, and in no time at all class is over and Castiel is shuffling down the crowded hallways on his way to art and design. There is no shortage of stares leveled his way, but, with the medication still circulating through his system, he soldiers on. Luckily, still-life and charcoal aren’t capable of the open-mouth stares some of the other students around him seem to be, so, with his shoulders hunched inward, he bends over his drawing pad and lets the motion of his hands sweep his edging panic away.

It’s a damn pity he’s managed to completely forget that aside from sharing the same gym time, he and Dean Winchester also share sixth period English. At first, the thought doesn’t even occur to him. It’s only when he’s seated and situating his backpack and books into his preferred manner that the scent of pine makes his skin prickle, undertones of leather and coriander not far behind. When Castiel looks up, Dean is sitting in his assigned seat, four seats back, and three seats over from Castiel’s own. Castiel makes it a point to look down, look away, before Dean can see that Castiel is looking for him.

It’s a minute and a half until the bell for class to begin rings, and the air is thick and heavy, oppressive, for the entirety of the duration. Castiel wonders if there is some kind of space-time anomaly happening, for when he looks up at the clock, the lesson is only five minutes through, but Castiel suspects it has been closer to a decade, give or take.

Finally, mercifully, the bell rings, signaling the end of school, and while Castiel is delighted that the day is nearly done, his joy is short-lived: still ahead of him is detention, of which Mrs. Harvelle, his english teacher, reminds both he and Dean. “Winchester, Novak - you two hang back while I finish up. Can I trust you two to still be here in five minutes?”

Castiel nods, while Dean answers with a tired, “yes ma’am.”

And then they are alone.

Castiel stays in his seat, eyes forward. He can’t tell if Dean is looking at him or not, and the idea of a pair of eyes - of  _ that _ pair of eyes on him, makes his heart ache. His mouth is dry, and suddenly all of the panic he’d managed to quell throughout the day churns the acid in his stomach, and he can taste bile at the back of his throat as it rises.

“Dean?”

Castiel jumps when he hears the voice, for he’d been so lost in himself that he hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps. It’s a girl’s voice, one he hasn’t heard before.

“What’s up, Jo?”

“Where’s mom?”

The question posed hangs in the air, and it momentarily pulls Castiel’s thoughts elsewhere.

“She stepped out for a couple minutes. Said she’d be back, if you want to hang around.”

“I just have a question for her. She’s probably getting her mail from the office or something; I’ll try and see if I can catch her on the way up. If she makes it back and I missed her, will you have her call me?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Silence cuts through the air, clear and sharp, and Castiel surmises that Jo must have noticed him for the first time.

“Hey, uh, what’s-”

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on, Dean. Can’t you just-”

“Nope.”

“What-”

“Please just drop it, Jo.”

Castiel doesn’t have to turn and look to know that Jo is sulking. He hears the shuffle of feet, a sound that slowly grows quieter until he can’t detect it at all. It’s then that he manages to turn and look at Dean, who, unsurprisingly, is looking at him.

“What did you tell her?”

He watches as Dean’s forehead creases. A moment passes between them, quiet and unrepenting.

“About what?”

“What did you tell her, tell them all, about us?”

He isn’t sure how, but Castiel watches as Dean’s face both softens and hardens.

“I haven’t told anyone anything.”

Castiel wants to scoff. He wants to roll his eyes, wants to raise his voice and call out the lie for being just that, but his words catch in his throat, and he swallows them down, thickly, because there is no mistaking what his eyes see before him, what his senses pick up on;  _ Dean Winchester is not lying _ .

“Whatever is - or isn’t - going on between us,” Dean continues, his index finger pointing between himself and Castiel, “it’s between you and me.”

Blinking, still somewhat confused, Castiel lowers his gaze, not sure what to think, what to do. He hadn’t been prepared for a truth like that, and Dean’s words sit heavy in his mind.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Castiel looks back up, still feeling off-balance. When he doesn’t answer, Dean takes the chance and speaks his question into the quiet of the air.

“Is it because I’m a guy?”

His brow knitting, Castiel cants his head in clear confusion. “Is what because you’re a guy?”

“Why you don’t want me.”

And it’s in that moment that Castiel realizes he’s not the only victim in the room, not the only one who’s heart aches, not the only one who is scared of what came to pass in the locker room that day hardly a few before.

He tries to smile softly, but he knows it must look too sad, because Dean doesn’t speak. “I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel finally offers. “It might sound a bit harsh, but the truth behind all of this honestly has nothing, whatsoever, to do with you. Not with who or what you are. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s face sours, his lips pucker, his eyes slit as he gazes upon Castiel with obvious doubt laced through his features. “So that’s it? You’re not even going to try?”

There it is again, the panic that sinks its claws into the back of his neck, balancing precariously on the precipice between ‘okay’ and ‘not okay.’ Castiel shifts, uneasy, and he knows that he must smell of it, because, hardly a second later, Dean’s shoulders sag.

“What you said to Lisa earlier, about me being too good for you - what did you mean by it?”

Castiel shrugs, the feeling of unease still ghosting down his spine like fractures of ice, spider-webbing until nothing within him feels as though it is left whole. He can feel his heartbeat in his own head, can smell the bitter tang of his own fear as it begins to well up within him.

“It’s just, we don’t know one another well enough to make those kinds of claims.”

The words are there in the back of his throat, on the tip of his tongue; words that he knows will make Dean hate him, will make Dean wish he’d never found out who is True Mate is. Castiel almost speaks them just to get it out in the open, just so he can see the look of disappointment Dean will level him with, just to get it  _ out of the fucking way _ , because there is no reason Dean would ever want to talk to him again if he knew what happened, if he knew what Castiel went through.

“Can’t we at least try to be friends?”

The question takes Castiel by surprise, so much so that he nearly flinches. When he looks at Dean, he sees nothing other than earnest honesty. And he  _ aches _ for it. Some part of him, deep and hidden for years,  _ wants _ .

“What do you say, Cas? Can we give it a shot?”

Friends. Just friends. Something that Castiel hasn’t had, outside of his brother or his father, in years. He swallows, and, despite the thundering staccato of his heartbeat resonating within his skull, nods.

And the smile that graces Dean’s face is worth it. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes as the skin of his cheeks rise because of his smile is worth it. The gentleness about him as he looks at Castiel is  _ worth it _ . Even if it’s instinctual, a basic part of his biology, giving into the Alpha’s wishes puts him at ease, and the muscles in Castiel’s back and shoulders relax.

Dean moves to talk again, but it’s then that their teacher, Mrs. Harvelle enters the room. “Alright boys, let’s get down to it.”

Detention isn’t something Castiel ever thought he would experience. He always tries to keep his head low, to get by under the radar. He’s not the kind of young man to act out. That’s not to say he doesn’t understand why he’s being punished: he left school grounds in the middle of the school day, and had run from the truant officer. Of course he’s in trouble. But Castiel is convinced they are going easy on him, or at least Mrs. Harvelle is, because all the hour and a half he’s in detention for consists of is he and Dean sitting in silence, the both of them working on their homework. His homework, of course, really doesn’t take up the entire time, but Castiel works slowly and stretches it out, so that he won’t be left with nothing to do after he finishes.

There are five minutes to go on the clock before detention is over when Mrs. Harvelle’s desk phone rings. She picks it up and speaks for a moment, then hangs up and gets Castiel’s attention. “Castiel, that was your dad. He says he’s going to be a little later today than he thought he would be, and needs you to get home on your own. You live far? I can I give you a ride if you need it.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No thank you. It’s not that far of a walk.”

 

\- - - - - - -

 

It’s only when Castiel is standing under the awning in front of the school that he wishes he had taken up Mrs. Harvelle’s offer. The rain begins quickly, and it falls down in sheets, obstructing his vision. He stands by the front doors for a few minutes, debating whether or not he should try and wait the storm out when out shuffles Dean, who had been kept for a few minutes after their detention at the behest of Mrs. Harvelle for reasons Castiel didn’t stick around long enough to hear.

“You gonna make it home alright?” Dean inquires, standing at Castiel’s side, surveying the downpour before him.

“It’s not that long of a walk. I’ll make it. I’ll be soaked to the bone, but I’ll make it.”

Dean levels Castiel with a somewhat concerned look, a look Castiel catches out of the corner of his eye.

“I could give you a ride home.” Dean pauses after the sentence leaves his mouth, and Castiel can see Dean’s cheeks redden. “I mean, if you want.”

And maybe it’s because of Castiel’s medication, still coursing through his veins, or maybe it’s because of his Omega instincts, wanting to please the Alpha, or maybe it’s because he, Castiel, just wants to to prove to himself that not everyone is out there to get him - whatever the reason, Castiel swallows down the lump in his throat and speaks. “Okay.”

Dean’s head snaps to the side so fast that Castiel worries it has given Dean whiplash. He can feel the heat on his own cheeks as they pinken, but he steadies his resolve. It’s not entirely his own bravery he knows he’s drawing up from; on his way from detention to the front of the school, he’d popped another two pills from the pillbox in his pocket. He hadn’t been crashing, but he’d been close enough to the edge that he began to feel the tell-tale signs of it, could feel it in the way his hands started to shake, could feel it in the way the bile rose in his stomach, the way he could taste it at the back of his throat. The crash always came; he was no stranger to such a feeling. It would always come, because in his experience, it always had.

But standing next to Dean, Castiel feels somewhat at peace. He can discern that he is in control of his feelings, of his body. The entire day had been something that he’d never really had the chance to prepare for, but had managed to trudge through without collapsing, without curling up into a ball and whimpering whenever he drew breath.

And he’d even made a friend.

That’s what you did, wasn’t it? Let friends help you when you were in need?

Dean’s smile is so unexpected and so large, Castiel can’t help the grin that overtakes his own face.

“Really?” Dean asks, as if he suspects Castiel might be playing some trick.

Castiel bites at his lip, then nods.

There it is again, Dean’s bright smile. It grips something inside of Castiel, settles inside of his heart like a deep-seated desire, a  _ need _ , heavy and primal.

And Castiel is afraid. Of course he’s afraid. But that doesn’t mean the broken pieces of him run, scatter in different directions. They tremble and shake, loosely, rattling like bones, but they keep. And so does Castiel.

Dean’s shrugging his backpack off of one shoulder before Castiel realizes that he means to peel off his coat, too, and it’s hardly a few breaths later that Castiel is being handed Dean’s well-worn leather jacket. The smile flashed his way warms Castiel through. Dean balances his backpack over his shoulders, shielding his head, while Castiel does roughly the same with the jacket.

“Ready?” Dean is still smiling.

Castiel nods, and the both of them take off.

His feet kick up water that has gathered on the pavement since the rain began, wetting the bottoms of his jeans, soaking his sneakers through. He hates the feeling of wet socks, but as he runs behind Dean, toward a sleek, black, lone car at the far end of the student lot, all he can feel is exhilaration.

Dean makes it to the far side of the car first, and fumbles for a moment with the key, sliding quickly across the bench seat and unlocking the passenger’s side door. In the blink of an eye, Castiel scrambles into the car, shutting the door behind him as fast as he can to keep the rain out.

Castiel meets Dean’s gaze across the seat, and though he knows it’s terribly impolite, he can’t help himself; he begins to laugh. The first few sounds of it fly from him before he can help it, and he quickly brings his hand up to his mouth as if it might stop the action. It doesn’t, and Castiel continues to laugh despite his hand.

It wins a few unsure chuckles from Dean. “What?” he asks in good humor.

“Your backpack didn’t really help. You’re hair is all wet.”

There’s a mischievous glint in Dean’s eye, and before he knows what’s happening, Castiel is showered with water as Dean runs a hand through his hair and flicks the rain with his fingers.

And it’s like he’s five again, and Gabriel is chasing him around the house with a squirtgun; Castiel finds himself laughing wholeheartedly, without fear or pain or panic.

The laughing draws to a steady end, but the mirth about Dean doesn’t diminish even as he re-arranges himself on the seat and starts his car. The machine roars to life, sounding off even over the deluge of water that is pelting the car from above. Castiel looks on as Dean swipes a hand across the car’s dashboard affectionately. “Baby, this is Cas. Cas, meet Baby.”

The smile is still present on Castiel’s face, and he plays along with Dean and the, apparently, precious automobile. “Hello, Baby. It’s nice to meet you.”

Dean’s foot presses gently on the gas, and the engine purrs in response. “Hear that? She likes you.”

Castiel scrunchies his face, rubbing a hand over his features. He feels silly, and his laugh gives the feeling weight, but it’s comfortable as it settles over him, like a warm blanket.

They fall into an easy silence as Dean shifts his car into gear and they roll out of the student lot, which takes Castiel slightly by surprise. Dean seems to know where he’s going, and Castiel thinks back just a few days prior, when he’d come home after that fateful morning in the locker room and Dean had been sitting, alongside his parents, in Castiel’s living room. He pushes away the emotions that well up in him, banishing the encounter from his mind.

That doesn’t, however, mean he is in any way successful with the task. He knows he must smell of fear, but Dean doesn’t let on that he can tell. Castiel isn’t sure if he should be worried or not; perhaps Dean is merely trying to be polite.

But then the car pulls up into the driveway of Castiel’s house, and suddenly it’s over, suddenly he’s home and the hours upon hours that made up his school day are behind him. He turns to face Dean, what little room there is between them seeming both like mere inches as well as a stretch that spans the very globe.

Castiel is on the verge of being the one to speak first, to thank Dean for his kindness, but the other boy beats him to it.

“So I was thinking,” he starts, scratching the side of his face, fidgeting in his seat. “I was thinking that, since, you know, you said you’d give the whole ‘friends’ thing a whirl, I might suggest something.”

Castiel actually finds himself curious, and he tilts his head to invite Dean to continue. “I meant it when I said that whatever does or doesn’t go on between us isn’t anyone else’s business. But, the whole thing with Meg kind of made me nervous.”

Swallowing, Castiel nods minutely in agreement.

Dean keeps going. “I was thinking, if you wanted to, you could, like, borrow my jacket. If you wore it a couple of times - just like once or twice - I think it would keep her away.”

He knows it’s a bad idea. 

That’s not true. Dean’s idea is honestly a good one; even if he only wore something of Dean’s in public once, it would send a clear message to anyone else who was even thinking of approaching him, like Meg had earlier that day. And, if Dean meant what he said about keeping whatever did - or didn’t - go on between them strictly between the two of them, no one else would ever have to know that it was all a farce, simply to keep Castiel out of the sights of others.

What makes it a bad idea is that, after wearing Dean’s jacket, Castiel will smell like Dean, even if only for a brief amount of time, smell like the one who’s heart glows when their skin touches, smell like the boy who fate, apparently, has decided is his perfect match.

And Castiel isn’t sure he can take that.

It’s too bad his voice is a damn traitor.

“Okay.”

It takes a few seconds, infernal and nearly eternal, before Castiel watches as Dean’s face completely lights up. The tips of Dean’s ears and the base of his neck turn the prettiest shade of pink Castiel has ever seen, and he knows, right then, that he already is in way too deep.

He says goodbye, the jacket still clutched in his grasp. The words are numbing as they pass over his tongue, and Castiel sags against the door once he’s inside.

His hands tremble as they bring Dean’s jacket to his face. The leather is soft against his skin, and as he inhales, deeply, Castiel curses himself. He’s in too deep.  _ Way _ too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter; anxiety due to minor confrontation, & minor panic issues.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation is inevitable. Castiel makes a minor confession, falls apart, but is desperate to keep himself in one piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any trigger warnings are at the end of the chapter. You've been warned. If you think there is a trigger I didn't warn for, please let me know and I'll amend any mistakes.

The weekend passes in a blur, one that Castiel spends in his bedroom, finishing another book in a series he’d recently picked up, as well as completing more than what his homework had required. When Monday morning rolls around, his dad has already left the house, and Castiel is glad that it’s sunny out once more; his bike ride to school will be pleasant.

It’s not his shower that makes him nearly late that day, nor is it his breakfast. No, everything is flowing well and Castiel finds himself locking up his house right on the dot. What nearly makes him late, however, is the jacket in his hands. He debates putting it in his backpack. He also debates putting in back in the house, crawling back into bed, and completely ignoring the world until his dad comes home. But there would be disappointment in his voice, and Castiel can’t do that to him, not after all of what his dad’s put up with regarding his condition recently.

He decides to pull Dean’s jacket on. It creates a warm layer over his sweater - not too hot, given that there is still a chill to the early morning - and, much like he wishes he hadn’t over the entirety of the weekend, he inhales deeply. Alongside the notes of the leather of the jacket itself, Dean’s scent warms his lungs, coriander and pine sticking to the back of his throat.

Castiel ignores the stares that he is leveled with as he locks up his bike outside of the school’s front doors, wearing Dean’s jacket. It’s just a ruse, one that will keep people like Meg away from him, but even so, Castiel’s stomach tightens as he enters the building hardly a few minutes before the first bell rings. He picks his math book up from his locker, even though math isn’t until second period, and begins down the hallway toward his current events class.

A warm flash of green catches his eye, and down the hallway Castiel meets Dean’s gaze. Dean inclines his head toward Castiel, who returns the motion. Then, Dean smiles.

And Castiel hates himself, because he has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He wants to. _God ,_ he wants to. But then there is a look of confusion on Dean’s face, and Castiel’s heart wrenches in his chest when he realizes what, exactly, it is he is meant to be doing. So, Castiel summons a shy smile - not that it’s particularly difficult, though he might hate himself for it - and quickly averts his eyes.

 _It’s all a show_ , Castiel tells himself. It doesn’t help the twisting knot in his stomach, nor the warmth that he feels grip his heart. Damn his Omega instincts!

First and second period pass by without incident, unless the list that defines what, exactly, an incident is includes all of the stares Castiel can feel on the back of his neck. He’s still wearing Dean’s jacket, knows he carries Dean’s scent with him, and while he feels his heart beating at nearly double speed throughout the entire morning, he continues on as if it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

Gym is uneventful, though Castiel is pleased that his unexpected budding friendship with Garth seems to be going well. They pair up once more for tennis drills.

He feels rather than sees Dean’s eyes on him, and Castiel finds himself glad that while they share the same gym period, they do not share the same teacher. While Castiel and Garth warm up with their rackets, Dean and his class begin glossing over hockey rules.

By the time the bell for lunch rings and Castiel changes into his street clothing within the safety of one of the toilet stalls, his breath is shallow and he understands, quite clearly, that he needs a little time to himself. The locker room is nearly completely empty by the time he shrugs Dean’s jacket back on and and begins down the halls. After he deposits his math book back into the confines of his locker, he makes his way to the library. The book that he’d finished over the weekend wasn’t due back for some time yet, but he finished the previous, and finds himself excited over the prospect of what the next in the series might hold.

To say that he is surprised to fall in step beside Dean as he makes his way with his new paperback to the circulation counter would be a gentle statement. He physically starts, though manages to abort the movement most of the way through. Castiel thought he’d managed to catch Dean’s scent as he’d started toward the front of the library, but had temporarily been engrossed in reading the back cover of his book to notice that the scent wasn’t coming from the jacket he still wore.

But Dean, it seems, looks just as surprised to see Castiel in the library as well. “Hey, Cas,” he offers alongside a wide-eyed smile.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel offers in return.

“Didn’t expect to catch you here.” He and Dean shuffle into the back of the line, already several students deep.

“I finished a book over the weekend, and wanted to pick up the next in the series.” As if Dean might not believe him, Castiel holds the book up and gives it a small shake.

Dean’s eyebrows raise well up his forehead. After letting out a soft huff, he holds his own book up for Castiel to see; it’s the second in the same series that Castiel is reading.

It must be his Omega instincts, because he feels himself warm over the prospect of he and Dean sharing something, despite how benign.

“Well, good to know I’ve apparently got good taste,” Dean chuckles, sliding up to the counter and handing his book over to the librarian. She takes it, as well as his offered laminated card, and stamps the due date on the card in the back pocket.

“Hey, uh, I was wondering,” Dean begins, shuffling from foot to foot for a moment before continuing. Dean watches him carefully as the librarian repeats the same process for Castiel’s book. “If you didn’t have plans, I thought maybe you’d like to have lunch with me?”

There it is, that creeping feeling of panic that begins to prickle at the base of Castiel’s spine. They were supposed to be friends - just friends, that’s all. That’s all that Castiel could agree to, that’s all that Castiel could offer.

But Dean, apparently sensing Castiel’s apprehension, keeps talking, though his words pick up in pace. “I meant, not, like, just with me or anything, but with my friends, too.”

He shouldn’t. Castiel knows that he shouldn’t. He’s already wearing Dean’s jacket, already feels comforted in the scent that lingers on him from having worn it over the weekend in the sanctity of his room. Then Dean bites his lip, his green eyes looking apprehensive.

What harm would it to do have lunch with Dean and his friends?

Potentially, a metric shit-ton. But, Castiel surmises, he’s already in over his head. What did it matter if the bottom dropped below his feet a few more inches?

Castiel nods, and the smile that he is rewarded with nearly makes him bolt then and there.

Their journey from the library is filled with questions thrown back and forth between the two of them regarding their shared taste in literature and the books that rest, now, in each of their respective backpacks. Castiel finds the tension draining from his body, and he wonders if he will even have to worry about taking a few of his anti-anxiety pills before lunch is over. It’s an almost welcome sense of ease that washes over him as he walks the halls at Dean’s side, and, vaguely, for just a moment, Castiel wonders if he will finally, _finally_ be able to just be himself. Just this once.

Dean’s friends aren’t what Castiel expects. To be fair, Castiel wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting, but Dean’s friend’s all seem nice, and far more of an eclectic group than Castiel had previously presumed they’d be.

Jo is the first to be introduced, a sweet girl with blonde curls who seems to be a few years younger than the rest of them. She mentions that Castiel has her mom, Mrs. Harvelle, for English class, and Castiel notices their similarities easily from there. He remembers her from his detention with Dean the other day as well.

Next is a senior named Ash, who Castiel thinks vaguely looks like he’s been dumped, unceremoniously, out of an 80’s movie about grunge rock and computer hacking - hair and all - but there’s a gentle ease about him that Castiel finds himself liking immediately, a relaxed, almost serene way he sits and smiles.

Despite having only spent hardly over two weeks at the school, Castiel recognizes the next student who, much to Castiel’s surprise, stands and shakes his hand when they exchange names. He’s Benny, a wall of a man, who, regardless of his physical presence and spot on the school’s football team, moves with reserved grace. Castiel recognizes him, too, from the fact that they share their art and design class.

Charlie is next, and she looks up from her Tolkien tome, practically beaming. Though Castiel doesn’t share any classes with her, he recognizes her mop of bright red hair anyway.

They all greet Castiel with warm smiles, and as he sits next to Dean at the end of the table, not a single one of them brings up what is - or isn’t - going on between he and Dean. There are no curious looks sent his way, even though he’s still wearing Dean’s jacket. There are no prodding questions. In fact, Jo even offers him the rest of her fries after Castiel finishes the sandwich that he’d brought from home.

Lunch is nearly over when a tall, raggedy young man who is all lean limbs and a mess of light chocolate hair stops at the end of the table and catches Dean’s attention.

“What’s up, Sammy?”

“I’m staying after school to help in the tutoring center. Just wanted to let you know that Ellen’ll give me a ride home.”

When Dean nods, the young man turns to Castiel. “Uh, hey.” His smile is tentative, but no less welcoming.

“Oh. Uh, hi. I’m sorry, I’m not in your seat or anything, am I?”

It’s then that Castiel notices the gaze of the boy is flittering between Castiel’s eyes and the jacket he wears.

“Relax, Sammy. We’re good. Sam, this is Cas. Cas, this is Sam, my little brother.”

The wariness eases out of Sam’s shoulders and face, and he holds his hands out meet Castiel’s own as they shake. “Nice to meet you.” As their hands drop, Sam steps away from the table. “Sorry to meet and run, but I’ve gotta go let Ellen know I’ll be staying and taking that ride after all.”

The rest of the day, and the day thereafter, pass by with fewer and fewer curious stares and mumbled inquiries behind cupped hands. On Wednesday, the seats in English class are all turned around and set into small circles. Mrs. Harvelle announces that it’s for peer editing purposes, and divides the class into small groups. When she reads Dean and Castiel’s names off the list, putting them in the same group, Castiel can’t really help the little flip-flop his stomach does when Dean makes a small, however still aggressive fistpump. The first half of class passes by mostly in silence; each member of each circle hands the rough draft of their essay to the left, where upon the receiving student reads through and highlights any grammatical or spelling errors, marking off to the side if there are questions or concerns about the content itself.

Castiel is taken by surprise when he reads Dean's essay. It's short, hardly a page altogether, but Dean's words are beautifully woven together, each sentence concise. It's not to say that Castiel thought Dean was unintelligent in any spectrum, but the beauty in the ink before Castiel is stunning. He doesn't make any corrections on the paper - what few spelling mistakes there are have already been underlined in red ink from some of the other students - but Castiel still makes a comment in the blank space on the second page. 'Beautifully written,' he writes in his own blue ink.

When they finish, everyone gets their essays back, and Castiel glances over the comments left in the margins of his paper. Mostly things he knew himself - a few missed or extra commas, some spelling errors - but what catches his eye are the words 'beautifully written,' scribbled in green ink. The only one in the circle, Castiel notices, with a green pen is Dean. Who, auspiciously enough, is wearing a blush upon his cheeks as he looks at his own paper.

Castiel fidgets in his chair, unsure how to react. Luckily, he doesn't have to; Mrs. Harvelle speaks to the class about what she expects in their next draft until the bell rings. She reminds Dean and Castiel not to forget their last detention on the following Friday, and they both make nods of affirmation in unison.

Castiel doesn't bother sticking around; he hustles to the bike rack and unlocks his chain with only a slight trembling of his fingers.

Thursday is, thankfully, uneventful.

Friday, however, isn’t.

Castiel has lunch with Dean and his friends again, and they all treat Castiel like he's been their friend all along, offering their fries and drinks when Castiel reveals all he is having is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Again.

"Thank you," he politely declines. "But I am curious how my jam turned out."

“ _Your jam?_ " Charlie inquires.

Castiel nods through a bite of his sandwich, pleasantly pleased with the outcome of his hard work. "We have a few fruit trees in our backyard, and I whatever fruit we weren't able to finish I made into jam. The apple jam was first - my brother has a sweet tooth, and it's his favorite - but since he took the last few jars with him when he went back to school the other week, I decided I wanted to try the cherry."

"Can I try?" The inquiry comes from Charlie.

"Oh, uh, yes. Certainly." Castiel hands over the other half of his sandwich, and Charlie tucks a corner in her mouth.

She makes an obscene noise when she bites down, and rolls her eyes. "Holy crap, dude" she says after she swallows, going in for another bite.

Jo swipes the sandwich half out of Charlie's hands before another bite is stolen, and eats a bite of her own. Much like Charlie, Jo moans as she chews. "I agree with Charlie; holy crap."

Castiel can feel the heat in his cheeks. The remainder of his sandwich half gets passed around, after everyone asks if he is sure they can try some, and before long, the sandwich is gone.

"No one bothered to save me a bite?" Dean barks as he wiggles in next to Castiel, lunch in hands.

Castiel playfully rolls his eyes, then holds out his own half of his sandwich. Dean smiles as he takes a taste, and freezes suddenly, looking down at his hands. "Jeeze, Cas," he says after he swallows. "You _made_ that?"

His cheeks are practically tingling he's so flustered. Other than Gabriel and his father, no one has ever tried Castiel's cooking. He believed his culinary creations were decent at best, and thought perhaps that his family might have been a little biased in their opinions of them. But to hear it from people he's only spent the last few days around?

"I like to cook," he responds, because it's all he can think to say.

Dean hands the sandwich half back, or what is left of it, but hesitates before it's out of his grasp. "Is that all you brought to eat?"

Castiel shrugs, finishing his sandwich. But he watches out of the corner of his vision as Dean gazes down at his slice of pizza.

"Cas!" Charlie squeaks. "You should have told us that was all you had."

Dean makes his move, sliding his plate in front of Castiel. "Don't sweat it. Here, Cas - have as much as you want."

And just like that, anxiety worms it's way into the base of Castiel's spine. They are pretending for the sake of his safety, safety from the advances of other nosey alphas like Meg, that he and Dean are together. In fact, Castiel is still wearing Dean's jacket. But the offer of food - _no_ , for an Alpha to offer _his_ food - it’s almost stepping past the boundary of what is comfortable for the two of them. Castiel doesn't know if Dean has told any of his other friends about their situation. He'd like to think not, considering how Dean had shut Jo out the other day when she began to sniff around, not to mention that the fact that Dean himself had said whatever was between the two of them was just that, but Castiel doesn't know Dean well enough to know for absolute certain. In his Omega role, Alphas are expected to provide for him; if he accepts Dean's shared lunch, since everyone perceives them as mates, it will further solidify the tentative bond between them. But Castiel worries less about what they think, at least for the moment, and worries instead over how Dean might perceive the gesture of acceptance. It’s one thing to offer a bite of food, a simple taste. It’s something else entirely to offer someone the very food from your plate, when you yourself have yet to take a bite.

Dean clears his throat, and Castiel realizes that he’s been hesitating for far too long. He startles at the sound, looking at the bite of sandwich in his hand to the plate of pizza in front of him.

He swallows, and nods shallowly.

It’s all a show, right? He needs to make sure that he will be left alone, and playing along with Dean is a sure-fire way to ensure such. And it’s not like he’s leading Dean on; it was Dean who suggested that Castiel wear his jacket, his scent, to ward off others, in the first place.

 _‘It’s all a show,_ ’ he reminds himself, not for the first time that day, and certainly not for the last.

The pizza is warm when he brings it up to his lips to take a bite. It’s by no means great - what kind of school cafeteria pizza _is_? - but it's cheesy and not too doughy, and it will fill his belly a bit more than his sandwich might have. That's not what nearly makes him begin to tremble, though; Dean is watching, eyes glued to his mouth, in rapt attention, a slight blush glowing under the smattering of freckles that dot on his cheeks.

"Get a room, you two," Castiel hears Charlie quip. It's meant to be funny, but he doesn't laugh.

Dean does, but it's contrived and short, and it sounds forced.

"Hey, guys?" It's Jo next to speak. "Um, I don't want to be all intrusive, but, like, can we see the glow?"

All of Castiel's internal organs drop into his feet.

Benny leans forward in his seat, as do Charlie and Garth. Even Ash looks up.

But because the universe isn't _always_ merciless, before either Castiel or Dean have a chance to open their mouths, the bell rings and all around them other students begin picking up and packing away their lunches. Dean is quick to stand, and Castiel is even quicker to follow. They mumble their goodbyes and hurry off in separate directions.

The last class of the day, English, Dean and Castiel are put in different groups for peer-editing, so that their next to final drafts of their essays can be seen by more eyes, in hopes of catching any and all mistakes. Castiel doesn’t know how to feel about it, but considering the class works until the bell rings, he doesn’t get much of a chance to worry over it.

Until, that is, when the final bell rings, and he and Dean have to stay after school for another day of detention.

Like the previous week, Mrs. Harvelle leaves the room for a few minutes to run down to the office to pick up a few things. What, exactly, Castiel really wasn’t paying close enough attention to hear, and instead chooses to read over his weekend homework from his math class.

Dean comes to sit at his side. “Sorry about... well, lunch, I guess.”

Castiel momentarily pauses - freezes, really - before turning to look at Dean. He offers a little shrug in response. “Everyone thinks we’re together, right? I had a feeling someone might ask, eventually.”

Dean scratches the back of his head. “I know, but I’m still sorry.”

Crossing his ankles, Castiel adjusts his position. “You really haven’t... told them the truth?”

With a shrug, Dean bites his lips. “When they ask, I just tell them not to worry about it.”

Castiel winces. “I don’t mean to come between you and your friends.”

Another shrug. “They wouldn’t be my friends if they tried to come between us. They’re just curious. They know if I need to, I’ll talk.”

“And will you?”

Dean offers a smile in return. “I was actually hoping... hoping to ask you about that. This last week, hanging out with you has been great. Maybe, like, we could give it a chance. You know - a real chance.”

Castiel’s mouth goes dry. “I don’t... I mean, I’m not...”

“It’s just - Cas, we’re True Mates. You know how rare that is? Other than my parents, I don’t think I’ve ever met more than a handful of people who’ve found their True Mate.”

“It doesn’t matter-”

Dean leans forward in his chair, and Castiel feels like there isn’t enough space in the room, not in the solar system, and that the walls are closing in on him.  “It does, though! We have this great opportunity, what with finding each other so young and-”

“You don’t understand, I-”

“Why can’t you just give me a chance, Cas? I can-”

When Dean reaches out, Castiel recoils backward, standing as he does so.

“Why can’t you just let it be? You said we could be friends - just friends. Why can’t you-”

They’re yelling, they’re both yelling, and Castiel takes a step backward as Dean stands and takes one toward him.

“ _True Mates_ . We were _made_ for each other, and you can’t even give me the time of day, or even a _decent_ excuse why you-”

“MY MOTHER!” Castiel jumps at the volume of his own voice. He cannot make himself stop talking; the dam is broken, and the water flows unhindered. “My mother and father were True Mates, and that didn’t stop her from ruining our lives, from leaving us! You think we’re somehow going to be perfect together because of some stupid glow? You don’t know me, you don’t know the first thing about me!”

Castiel yelps when his back hits the wall, having lost track of where he stood in his surroundings. He finds his hands in his hair, strands caught between his fingers as if the motion will keep his brain from exploding.

When Dean takes a step toward him, Castiel flinches back, but there is no where else for him to run to, no place he can hide. His knees give out and he slumps to the floor, unable to catch his breath. Everything is spinning, his ears are ringing, he can’t inhale enough oxygen, he’s going to vomit, he’s going to pass out-

There are warm hands on his shoulder, accompanied by the gentle scent of coffee and vanilla. Castiel knows it’s not Dean, because Dean smells like a leather jacket in a pine forest. But the scent is comforting, because it reminds him of home. When he looks up, Mrs. Harvelle has her hands on his shoulders, and they gently move down to his elbows in a comforting manner. Castiel’s bottom lip trembles, and he bites it to keep from crying out again.

“You’re supposed to carry something for times like this, right?”

Quivering, Castiel pushes a shaking hand into his pocket and pulls out his pillbox. Into his other hand, Mrs. Harvelle pushes a cup of hot cocoa.

“Thank you.” It comes out weak, defeated.

“Don’t worry about it, honey. I usually drink coffee, but I decided to switch it up a little today. Glad I did; you look like you could use something nice and sweet.”

After Castiel pushes two of his pills into his mouth, chasing them with a sip of wonderful, hot chocolate, and when he stows his pillbox back into his pocket, he sighs. “How much... how much do you know?”

Mrs. Harvelle grimaces. “Not much, darlin’, but enough to know that you’ve been to hell and back.”

He almost doesn’t ask, but finds himself incapable of not. “Where’s Dean?”

“Told him to hightail it outta here. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Castiel shakes his head after another long drink of his beverage. “No, not him. We were just talking, and things got carried away. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. It is what it is, and we’ll make the best of it. And whatever Dean said or did, don’t hold it against him too much; he’s a sweet boy. Stubborn and sometimes as dense as a brick wall, but sweet.”

Castiel doesn’t have a reply to that, so he changes the subject. “You didn’t call the paramedics, did you?”

“I called your dad first, which might dump me into a world of trouble, but I remember reading in your file your severe aversions to hospitals and the like, so I made a judgement call.”

“Thank you. I really am sorry for-”

"Honey, I told you not to worry about."

Before he has a chance to speak again, his dad calls his name from the doorway.

Castiel's shoulders sag. He is always so much trouble, he knows. But what else can he do? The thought of suicide holds no place in his mind, even if it had in the years before.

"Come on, son. Let's gets you home." Chuck's voice is gentle; it always is. Castiel feels a sliver of joy over the devotion his father has for him, let alone the patience. He wishes he wasn't... Well, he wishes sometimes he wasn't himself. That he could just _be_ better. But, of course that’s not how it works. Not even a little bit.

Castiel goes to gather his things from his desk while his father thanks Mrs. Harvelle. Dean's jacket is still on the back of his chair, and he hesitates to touch it.

"Just leave it there. He’ll get it when he comes back."

He mumbles his thanks as he and his father shuffle out of the door. It isn't until they are halfway home before his father breaks the silence. "You want to talk about it?"

Castiel fidgets in his seat. _No_ , he thinks, but he starts to talk anyway. “Last week, an alpha confronted me in the library."

Chuck's knuckles go white from where he’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

Cas pretends he doesn't notice. "Dean happened to be in the library, and he got her to leave me alone. But... She was in her right to approach, since I didn't have Dean's scent on me. Still, he chased her off."

"That was the day he drove you home?"

"Yeah. He lent me his jacket on our way to his car, since it was raining so hard. Then, in the driveway he told me to keep it for a while, that if I had his scent then everyone would leave me alone. And he asked if we could be friends."

"Oh, Cas-"

"That's what today was about. I've been having a good time all week, eating lunch with him and his friends, and no one bothered me. Then in detention, when Mrs. Harvelle left the room, he started prying. He told me he didn't understand why I couldn't give him a chance, that we were _meant to be_ , and he wouldn't stop, wouldn't drop it and... I told him about mom."

The rush of air Chuck inhales nearly makes him choke.

"Not everything. Just that she left us... That she ruined our family."

No more words are exchanged until the car is off and they are sitting in the driveway.

"Just because your mom and I didn't work out doesn't mean you'll share the same fate."

He’s on the brink of tears when he formulates a reply. "And what if it does? I can't take something like that, dad. Not all over again."

"And what if you and Dean really _are_ perfect for each other?"

Castiel's heart aches. There isn’t enough air in the car, so he opens the door and walks past the house, down the little narrow strip of yard between his and the neighbor’s fence, beginning toward the forest behind. He doesn’t know if his dad follows him, and, as much as he loves him, Castiel hopes that he doesn’t, because when his panic attack finally gets to the point where he can’t keep his voice inside of him any longer, he doesn’t want his father to see how he falls apart.

His Sanctuary is as it always is; his. There are no foreign smells in or around it; just his own scent and that of the forest, of moss and tree bark and earth.

Behind the loose brick on the far wall, where it always is, Castiel finds the little orange bottle. He twists the cap off and takes three pills right away, swallowing them dry without much effort, then falls to the mattress. Every muscle in his body is tense, and he shakes, helplessly, as he wails, pressing his face into one of the pillows in order to drown out the sounds that fall past his lips.

“I hate you,” he cries. “I hate you,” his somber voice strains to speak, crawling up his throat on knives and falling out of his mouth like gravel. “I hate you,” he whispers, knowing that no matter how many times he says it, his mother will never hear.

By the time Castiel makes it back to the house, it’s dark.

He tells his dad he wants to go back to school on Monday, but Chuck shakes his head. Before his dad can reply, Castiel continues. “I want to _try_.”

Chuck’s voice is as calm as it ever is. “You’ve have been trying. You’ve been doing your best, but I think-”

“What am I going to do when I graduate, when I have to get a job? I can’t just stay here, pretending the real world isn’t out there!”

“Yes, but-”

“What am I going to do for the rest of my life? Keep locking myself away? How I am going to make a living if I can’t even leave my house?”

Chuck sighs, runs a hand over his face. “Alright. We’ll make a deal.”

Castiel abruptly stops speaking. His dad is by no means a hard-ass, but a compromise? “What kind of deal?”

“You keep going to school, like you want.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Castiel waits to hear the rest of the bargain.

“But you get three strikes.”

Castiel inhales sharply. “Okay.”

Chuck shakes his head. “I mean it; three strikes. We’re talking panic attacks at school again, or me or Gabriel having to come get you, and that stands for your grades, too - no trouble-making, nothing below a B, no skipping class, no-”

The words are lost as Castiel flings his arms around his dad and presses in close for a tight hug. He’s almost in tears, but he holds them back. “Thanks, dad.” There is a crack in his voice when he speaks, but if his dad hears it, he doesn’t say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: panic attacks, brief mention of previous suicidal thoughts, very minor prescription medication usage tiptoeing into abuse territory (vague)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel wants, so badly, to try, and Dean would wait until the end of time for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, chapter warnings are tagged at the bottom of each chapter. If you feel I've missed any, feel free to comment and I will fix them accordingly

At school, the stares return. Quiet words are spoken behind cupped hands, looks flung his way.

But Castiel brushes them off.

He has to prove himself. He _has_ to. If he’s going to go to college, he has to be brave, he has to be strong, he has to be independant.

Castiel has had the entire weekend to think, to deliberate, and he’s come to a single conclusion; he can do this. It’s by far one of the hardest thing he’s ever going to do, but it’s either try or fail. There really isn’t an in between.

And he’s sick of failing. He’s sick of hiding.

So, for the entire week, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and simply be. He doesn’t eat lunch with Dean and the others; he knows his presence isn’t welcome, or at least suspects that it wouldn’t be once Dean tells them all what happened between them, how Castiel fell apart so masterfully. No, Castiel eats his lunch in the library, even though there is a strict ‘no food’ policy. He loses himself deep into the back stacks, and falls into the books there like rain to the earth. He finishes two books by Wednesday alone, because fictional worlds are so much easier than his own.

In gym, he actually is surprised that Garth still seems happy enough to see him. They pair up when it’s time to run drills, and not once does Garth bring up anything regarding Dean, Dean who spends the entire period - not to mention every single day - carefully making sure not to even so much as _glance_ at Castiel. But Castiel can’t really find it in him to blame Dean for it. In English, Mrs. Harvelle changes their assigned seats, sitting he and Dean at opposite sides of the room. She shoots him a wink at one point, and Castiel briefly nods in thanks.

Castiel feels that, perhaps, he should apologize to Dean at some point. But what could he possibly say? _’I’m sorry I’m so broken,’_ sounds too pitiful, and _’I’m so fucked up, you can’t even begin to imagine’_ is fucked-up in its own right, whereas, _’I can’t make you happy’_ seems too, well, to the point.

Some part of Castiel, locked deep down, wishes he could take back what little truth he gave Dean about his mother. Maybe if he wasn’t so broken...

He’s so lost in thought, he doesn’t so much as hear someone approach. Castiel suddenly freezes. There is a warm breath ghosting over the back of his neck, and it makes his stomach clench and churn at the same time.

He can practically _hear_ the smile on the lips of the person behind him.

“What’s this? A little Omega all on his lonesome. Where’s your Alpha?” The voice - clearly belonging to another boy - pauses momentarily, and Castiel sits, frozen with fear as he hears the other person inhaling deeply. “Oh, what’s this? Your Alpha isn’t around, and you aren’t bathed in his scent? I bet you like playing hard to get.”

Castiel is out of his chair and halfway across the area in a heartbeat, but the stranger’s smile is toothy and sinister. He slowly stalks toward Castiel, his eyes never wavering.

Eventually finding his voice, Castiel tries to steel himself. “I’m not an O-”

The stranger snarls. “You’re wearing scent blockers, you take suppressants, but I’ve got a good nose - a far better nose than just about anyone else - and I can smell the Omega _stink_ on you.”

Castiel is backed into a corner, and he puts his hands up to shield himself from the stranger. He breaks out into a cold sweat, hating himself for not listening to his father. God, if he was just a better son, a better person - why did he have to be so _weak,_  so _broken_?

The stranger stops just inches in front of him, and the boy is easily a good half a foot taller, and has at least thirty pounds on him. His face is sharp lines and striking features, and he licks his lips as he leans forward and places both of his hands on either side of Castiel’s head.

He’s going to scream, he’s going to cry. He can feel another panic attack coming on, this one quick and likely merciless. His breath quickens, but no matter how much air he gulps down, there isn’t enough to fill his lungs. The boy in front of him reeks, smells of something rotten and charred, and Castiel knows he’s going to vomit from the stench.

He can’t help the word that falls out of him in a pleading whisper, can’t keep the name from falling past his lips: “ _Dean_.”

There’s a flash as quick as lightning, and suddenly Castile can breathe again. He opens his eyes, wondering when he’d closed them in the first place, and his gaze snap to the back of Dean’s head.

The stranger regains his composure after having been apparently flung across the room, dropping into a low crouch. “Winchester.”

Dean growls, low in his throat. “Alastair.” The name is said with contempt.

“I was just getting to know your little Omega bitch, since it’s obvious you just aren’t enough for him. What’s it been - two weeks? - and he’s already tired of you?”

Dean snarls, taking a menacing step toward Alastair.

Alastair chuckles.

Dean doesn’t wait to hear another word; one moment, he’s in front of Castiel, and the next he’s across the room, throwing wild punches. Castiel can only watch in mute horror as they claw and snarl at one another, not like men but like beasts.

The meaty sound of flesh hitting flesh is out of place in the quiet of the library, and it doesn’t take longer than a few moments before a crowd is drawn.

The fight doesn’t last, but for the entire duration Castiel can’t help but notice Dean keeps his back toward him, using his own body as a shield between he and Alastair. He hates the way his instincts make his heart absolutely ache; his Alpha is fighting to protect _him_.

Suddenly, there’s another blur in the fight, and then it’s over as quickly as it started. Tthehead librarian, a grumpy old curmudgeon named Rufus Turner, has both Dean and Alastair by their shirt collars.

“You two are coming with me,” the salty old Alpha growls. He turns his attention to Castiel. “And you better come, too.”

Castiel snatches his backpack off of the table as he follows in step behind the three. He’s trembling, yes, and he still feels like he might puke, but he lets determination take hold - his dad said three strikes; to get one on the first day back after the bargain was struck? Well, Chuck would likely pull him from school regardless of the deal, if Castiel is becoming so prone to such instances. His blood still runs cold from the panic - that much he’ll never refute - but control was up to _him_.

The bell that signals the end of lunch rings, and by the time they reach their destination, there are no longer any students in the hallway. Just as well, Castiel thinks - the fewer people know, the fewer the rumors. Well, hopefully, at any rate.

He’s told to sit on one of the wooden benches outside of the principal’s office. Rufus sits Dean down on the bench across the hall, and while keeping Alastair's shirt in his hand, marches the boy past the wooden doors of the office.

Dean speaks so quietly Castiel almost misses it. “Are you okay?"

What can he possibly say in response? _’Yeah I’m okay, now that you saved my ass yet again, even though I freaked out in front of you and pretty much told you there was no way in hell we could ever be a couple.’_ That would go over great.

Still, he nods in response, then drops his gaze not necessarily because of his instincts but because he is still fighting to keep himself together.

It’s a long time before the door opens - fourth period is almost over already - but eventually it does, and Alastair slinks out of the office with a snarl curled into his lips. He sits on an unoccupied bench to Castiel's left.

Mr. Turner motions for Castiel to enter the room, but as Castiel passes the librarian, the man doesn’t follow and instead shuts the door behind him.

Castiel turns to the only other man in the room - the school’s principal, Victor Henriksen.

“I’d like to hear what happened from your point of view, Castiel. If you don’t mind.”

He shakes his head as she sits in the chair directly in front of Mr. Henriksen’s desk. “I was in the library, and the other boy, Alastair, came at me. He... he cornered me, made remarks about... about my Omega status.”

Castiel had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Henriksen before, in the summer before he started back at school. The man was kind and understanding, and agreed to keep Castiel’s status hidden from the rest of the school. In fact, that day he’d shown Castiel the pictures on his phone from his last meeting with one of the groups that lobbied for Omega’s rights. Castiel had never given his trust to someone so quickly before; to have someone on his side? It was wonderful.

“Did you skip your suppressants, or were you not wearing your scent blockers?”

“No, sir. Alastair claimed that he could actually smell me underneath it all.”

Mr. Henriksen scratches at the stubble on his jaw-line.

“He said that since I didn’t smell like Dean... I was just playing hard to get. He called me a rather derogatory name, as well.”

With a sigh, Mr. Henriksen regards Castiel for a moment. “If you’re not claimed, he’s within his rights to approach you.”

 _‘Damn those archaic laws,’_ Castiel wants to scream.

But then, quick as a wink, a plan formulates in Castiel’s head. “If I... if I show you something, do I have your word to keep it secret and safe?”

The principal nods, his brow furrowed. “You know you can put your complete confidence in me, Castiel. My student’s well-being is my priority.”

Castiel bites his tongue to keep his mind from straying. With hands he hopes aren’t shaking too terribly, he raises his fingers and unbuttons the two top buttons of his shirt. He pulls the fabric away to reveal the marks on his left shoulder, right near his collarbone.

That gets a raise of Mr. Henriksen’s eyebrows. “You’re already mated?”

He can’t trust his tongue, so Castiel merely nods.

“Because this changes things, son. If you and Dean are mated, Alastair is in _deep_ trouble.”

“I was...” Castiel clears his throat, hoping that the few syllables that escaped him didn’t sound too cracked, too strained. “I was hoping to keep it between just Dean and I.”

“But Alastair said you didn’t smell like Dean in the library - I can’t smell him on you now.”

Castiel hates lying. He loathes it, but if there was ever a time for it, this was it. “Dean and I... moved a little fast. The whole True Mates business surprised us, obviously, and I asked him for a little space. He’s just giving me the room I asked for.” And, well, technically it’s not a _complete_ lie; Castiel _had essentially_ asked Dean for some space.

The smile offered to him by Mr. Henriksen was small but fond. “Thank you, Castiel. I appreciate your honesty.” He stands on the other side of the desk, and as he rounds it and nears Castiel, he places a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, turning him around and spinning him toward the door.

“You won’t tell?” Castiel whispers before the door is opened and he is ushered outside.

“You can trust me.” Mr. Henriksen turns toward Dean. “Winchester, you’re free to go. Alastair, if you’ll please follow me back into my office.”

When Castiel finally finds the courage to look up at Dean, the green eyes that find his own are laced with doubt and a fair bit of wonder. “What did you tell him?”

Castiel shakes his head.

When Dean doesn’t speak again, Castiel moves to stand in front of one of the secretary's desk. “What can I do for you, sweetie?” She asks as she looks up from her computer screen.

“May I please have a hall pass to get back to class?”

\- - - - - - -

Castiel’s bike is missing the front tire, as well as the handlebars. What was once a sweet, mint-green color, the main frame of his bike looks more than scratched, thick gouges running the entire side. He stares down at the remnants in abject horror, at an absolute loss for words, for thoughts.

There aren’t too many other students around - he had stayed late after school to get a little help with his math assignment - but he can feel all of their eyes on him. He stands there, lost for what to do, when, out of force of habit, he simply unlocks the chain from around the frame and winds it under - oh, no. The seat is gone, too.

Castiel chokes back a sob as he gingerly places his bike chain into his backpack.

It could have been anyone, he muses; Alastair seeking petty revenge, or even one of Dean’s ex’s or another who was seeking his attention. If it is indeed the latter, Castiel finds himself surprised only in that it took so long.

Aaand the day just gets worse. Of _course_ it does.

“Cas?” It’s Dean’s voice. He doesn’t even have to turn to know that Dean is right behind him. “What happened to your-” Dean’s question dies in his throat, and Cas cringes. It’s obvious to anyone what’s happened.

“Hey, uh.”

Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, wiping an unshed tear out of the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his sweater. He watches as Dean swallows, trying to find the right thing to say.

“I uh, never got a chance to thank you for whatever it is you did earlier to get us out of trouble.”

Something in Castiel unclenches. Mr. Henriksen had kept his promise, then. What a gift that man was; an educated educator who strove for equal rights. No matter how modern society grew, it still needed to move past such heinous laws regarding the treatment of Omegas.

“I work a few days a week at a mechanic’s shop - the guy who owns it’s an old family friend - and he’s got a scrap yard out back. I’m sure we could find some replacement parts for your bike.”

Castiel opens his mouth to politely decline, but Dean beats him to the punch. “It’s not much, but it’s really the only way I can pay you back. You saved my ass today, whatever you did. I would have been _so_ grounded if I got suspended again.”

Once more, he opens his mouth to politely decline, but Dean’s younger brother, Sam, shouts his name. He and Dean both turn toward the sound to find Sam running toward them.

“I overheard that someone wrecked your bike, Cas. You okay?”

“I just offered to find Cas some replacement parts from Bobby’s place.”

Sam nods, looking from his brother to Castiel. “Yeah, I’m sure uncle Bobby’d help.”

Finally, there is a pause in the conversation, but Castiel finds himself at a loss, not sure of what to say. He shifts, uncomfortably, from foot to foot, looking down at his bike forlornly.

“Sammy’d be there, too, of course,” Dean interjects quickly, like he can read Castiel’s thoughts.

“He owes me ice cream,” Sam adds with a grin.

He can’t. Castiel just _can’t_. Even so, his instincts are at war within him. The last time he and Dean had been in a room alone, their conversation had ended... The term ‘poorly’ was a very polite way to put it. There really wasn’t any other way to describe the situation. And yet, there is an almost agonizing need that wells up within him. His Alpha - his -

No.

Castiel bites down on his cheek until he can taste blood in his mouth.

Dean’s forehead creases with sudden worry, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll manage.”

Sam’s cants his head in a quizzical manner. “You sure?”

Forcing a smile, Castiel nods. Then, as if they’d disappeared completely, Castiel grabs what is left of his bike and begins to wheel it toward home. Less than a mile on foot - if he sticks to the paved roads, of course - and with the weather on the fair side, he decides he doesn’t mind.

There is nothing he can do about his bike. No, the only thing he is able to control is his reaction to the situation. His bike is ruined; he’s not delusional. But he doesn’t have to let it ruin _him_. What little panic that tries to claw its way up and out of him is trampled down. After all, less than a few weeks and the chill of late fall will fall over the city, and it will be too icy in the morning for Castiel to ride his bike anyway.

Regardless of how he’s come to terms with the situation, however, doesn’t mean he’s ready to talk to his dad about what happened. Not yet, anyway. So he hides the remnant of his bike behind some of the boxes Gabriel had stored his extra things in when he’d moved into his dorm, knowing that his father won’t accidentally stumble upon it there.

When Castiel enters the house, his dad asks him how school was, and Castiel replies, with actual honesty, that it was fine. It wasn’t uneventful - far from it - but it’s technically not a lie; no panic attacks, no meltdowns. He fixes himself a small snack to tide him over until dinner, then sequesters himself in his room. He’ll start on his homework later - maybe not even until tomorrow - but there are two new books in his backpack, and Castiel isn’t one to waste time when good literature is around.

He’s nearly 50 pages in when a soft knock sounds on his door. “Hey, Cas? There’s, uh, there’s someone to see you.”

For a fleeting moment, Castiel almost gives into blind panic. Did Alastair find his home address?

When Castiel manages to find his footing and pads across his bedroom, his dad is still on the other side of the door when he opens it.

“It’s Dean.”

Castiel swallows, hard. Alastair is bad, but Dean? Dean’s worse.

Not really, not truly, but it’s easier for Castiel to reign in his panic at the thought. Besides, his dad was home with him - he wouldn’t let anything happen to Castiel.

Chuck stands at the top of the stairs of the California split when Castiel inches the door open.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean’s smile is bright, and he wears it with a look of anxiety hidden behind it, as if he thought Castiel would refuse to see him.

“Hello, Dean. Is there something you need from me?”

Dean reaches up and scrates at the back of his neck, a nervous habit Castiel had seen the boy do plenty of times before. “I have, uh- sorry. I have a present for you. If - if that’s okay.”

Without looking over his shoulder, Castiel squeezes out of the front door and closes it softly behind him. He’s nervous, and a fair bit uncomfortable, but he’s assured his dad that he can handle himself. He won’t break; he’s stronger than that. Even so, if he cracks, he doesn’t want his dad to watch while it happens.

Dean’s smile brightens exponentially, and he hops down the three steps of the porch, signaling for Castiel to follow him to his car. Castiel only hesitates for a moment.

“It’s not much - she ain’t a looker - but she’s the best I could do on short notice.” Dean pulls at the bungie cord that’s keeping the trunk of his car from flying completely open, and Castiel stops dead when he sees what’s halfway falling out.

It’s a bike.

Dean meant it when he said it wasn’t much to look at - a little rusted in places, the paint peeling off in others - but it’s otherwise in decent shape. The chain and the pedal feet, however, look brand new.

“You didn’t have to do this for me, Dean.” He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

Dean, however, shakes it off like it’s nothing. “I know I didn’t have to, Cas - I wanted to. You seriously saved my bacon today. I don’t know what you said to Henriksen, but you got me out of a heap of trouble.”

Castiel sighs, his shoulders sagging. “If you hadn’t been there, Alastair would have...”

“Guy’s a creep. He was due for a pounding anyway.”

His mouth a little dry, Castiel spends a moment gathering his words and readying his question. “Why were you in the library?”

Dean ducks his head and scratches at the back of his neck again. “I actually had no idea that’s where you were - I wasn’t following you or anything, I swear. I was returning that book I picked up last week, and I just... I could just feel that something was wrong.”

“Thank you.”

Dean’s eyes snap up, as if words of thanks were the last thing he could imagine Castiel saying.

“If it wasn’t for you stepping in like you did, I would have...”

“Guy’s a creep,” Dean reiterates, this time through clenched teeth.

After a moment to collect himself, Dean shakes off the anger like water from his hands. “Anyway, the bike might be a little taller than your last one, but it was the only one I could find complete parts for.”

Castiel goes to thank Dean once again, but is interrupted before he can manage to speak. “Oh, I almost forgot!” He turns and leans into the open window of the car’s passenger-side, then leans back out with two covered wax-paper dishes. “I owed Sammy ice cream, but I figured that I’d bring you some, too.”

When Castiel hesitates, Dean retreats, back-pedals, even though he’s truly done nothing but be thoughtful. “I mean, if you don’t like ice cream, that’s totally okay. It’s kind of melted anyway, and I wasn’t sure what you liked so I just got chocolate, but-”

With a soft chuckle, Castiel outstretches his hand and graciously takes the partially melted ice cream from Dean. “I like chocolate just fine. Thank you.”

There’s a slight blush to his cheeks when Dean hands him one of the plastic spoons, but neither of them say anything about it. Instead, they peel the lids off their containers and, leaning with their backs against the car, eat in amicable silence.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” Dean asks, and it sounds innocent enough.

Even so, Castiel ignores the question. “Can I ask you something?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“And you’ll answer me truthfully?”

Another nod.

“Are you... Are you just waiting for me? Waiting for me to come around, to give in?”

Dean bites his bottom lip before he answers. “Part of me, I guess, just can’t let you go. But, and I should have said this the other day; I’m sorry. I’m sorry I pushed you last Friday, sorry I brought stuff up that I had no business digging into. If you don’t think we can ever be together, I need...” Dean sighs. “I need to respect that, respect you and your decisions. I’m not going to lie, though - there’s this ache I feel when I think about you, and I don’t think it will _ever_ leave. So, yeah, I guess a part of me is waiting, hoping that you might change your mind.”

“And what if I don’t?” Castiel cringes at the way his voice cracks. “What if I don’t feel like I can ever be with you?”

There it is again, the panic. It’s almost as if it never leaves, only dozes like cat might, awake and alert at the tiniest fuss.

Dean’s smile is sad. “I still know, even if we don’t end up together, who my True Mate is, that I’m one of the lucky sons-of-bitches that found mine. And, you know, even if you never come around... I’ll still wait, I’ll still be here.”

Castiel can hear the truth, the emotions, in Dean’s voice. He knows what the other boy will say before the sentence ever leaves his mouth, even though Dean barely whispers: “I’ll wait forever for you.”

That’s it. That’s what brakes the levee, that’s what smashes through the emotional brick wall Castiel has spent years building. He _wants_ . He _wants_ with everything that makes him up, even though he knows it won’t last. Maybe, if only for a moment, he can find happiness in something that he wants.

The paper cup and plastic spoon fall to the cement driveway with dull sounds; Castiel’s senses are honed in on Dean, who, with Castiel’s hands framing his face, looks awe-struck.

“Cas?” He whispers, his eyes flickering to the glow illuminating the space between them, the gentle light that is only just visible in the shadow of Dean’s car.

Castiel doesn’t trust his mouth to form words, so he gives it another job. Taking a single step, he closes the distance between he and Dean and brings their mouths together.

And, oh, _sweet merciful sun_ , Dean’s scent fills his nose - worn leather, and pine - and he can taste the chocolate ice cream on Dean’s lips - and he can feel Dean’s hands come to rest on his body, one cupping an elbow and the other falling to the small of Castiel’s back.

One of Castiel’s arms winds its way around Dean’s neck, while his other hand fists tightly in Dean’s faded t-shirt. They break contact for less than a second, both gulping in air before they fall against one another anew.

Castiel is shaking, and he can feel wetness on his cheeks, a sting in the corners of his eyes, but it doesn’t matter; his instincts have pushed everything else out of his mind save for the brilliant, indescribable moments shared between them.

Surprisingly, it’s Dean who pulls away first. Castiel sees a slew of emotions cascade across his features, no single one lasting more than a fraction of a second. Dean’s hands lessen their grip, even though Castiel’s have not.

Dean hisses his name, shaking his head. “This. We can’t keep doing this.”

Castiel flinches. “Kiss?” His voice is rattled, just as the rest of him feels.

Shaking his head - almost violently - Dean’s bottom lip trembles when he speaks. “On and off, pretending to save face. I wanna be with you, Cas-”

Surging forward, Castiel steals Dean’s words from his mouth. He pulls back when he hears Dean whimper. “I want,” he tries, shuddering.

Dean presses another kiss to his lips, gentle and coaxing, telling Castiel, without words, that there is time for him to gather what he needs to say.

“I want to _try_ , Dean.”

Castiel vaguely thinks he hears Dean groan his name before another kiss is pressed to his lips.

“I want to try, Dean,” he hiccups, amazed that he’s managed to keep hold of his voice for so long. “But I’m _scared_ . I'm scared and I am _so, so broken."_

Dean’s grip tightens before he whispers, “me too, baby. Oh, god, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: mild panic issues


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All warnings and triggers are marked at the end of each chapter. If you think there is something I didn't warn for, please let me know so I can amend any mistakes.

Three rings. Five. Eight. Ten. Dean is about to hang up his phone when Benny finally, _finally_ answers.

"Oh, thank god," Dean breathes, running a hand over his face.

"You sound a little wrung out." Benny's smooth accent curls around the words, and Dean takes a moment to thank whatever deity responsible for the bundle of amazing that makes up his best friend.

"I went to see Cas."

Benny's response is a weighty sigh.

"No, shut up, just listen. Someone fucked up his bike. Like, took the front wheel and the handlebar off. And I mentioned that as thanks for him saving my ass earlier with the library fight-"

"Still don't know what he said to get you out of it?"

"All I am bothering to care about is that he helped. If whatever he said or did didn't get him in trouble, we’re good. Anyway, bike. So, I mentioned Bobby's junkyard and how I was sure we could find replacement parts for his bike, and even told him Sam'd be with us and we could get ice cream-"

"Such a romantic."

" _Eat me_. He said no, and wheeled that poor pile of parts all the way back home, and the whole ride all I could think about was how he saved my ass and..."

"And I know how you get." There is a chuckle on the other end of the line. "Lemme guess; you found and took him the parts anyway "

Dean sighs.

That only makes Benny laugh harder. " _And_ you brought him ice cream."

"It wasn't just the parts. I couldn't find anything good for the bike he has - had, whatever - so I took what I could find and made, like, the bike version of Frankenstein's monster.”

Benny is still laughing, and Dean’s newest revelation makes him snort and, in turn, only laugh harder. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Dean feels his stomach bottom out as he readies to speak his next words. “Benny, he kissed me.”

And holy shit does that shut Benny up _instantaneously_ . Only a beat of silence falls before Benny tries to formulate words, but they end up falling out of his mouth like water. “He-you- _what_?”

Even though Benny can’t see it, Dean’ unable to help himself; he grins. It stretches clear across his face, and his eyes crinkle up at their corners. “Yeah. He, uh. He kissed me.”

“Like, we talkin’ a ‘thank-you’ peck on the cheek or-?”

“Dropped his ice cream to grab me.”

Dean’s smile starts to ache it’s so wide, and he waits, patiently, for Benny’s response.

“ _Well_.”

And it’s Dean’s turn to laugh, and he does, realizing he hasn’t felt so elated in years. He swipes a hand down his face just to check that he can still feel it because his cheeks are tingling.

“Now, I thought - and since you won’t tell anyone, all I’m doing is guess work here - that the two of you had moved a little past that.”

Dean’s face falls. He promised he wouldn’t tell...

“He was wearing your jacket, Dean - he was wearing your scent. And yet you call me to tell me that he only _just_ now kissed you?”

But Benny seems to understand Dean’s silence well enough.

“Ah.”

Even though Dean hasn’t said a word, he suspects Benny’s finally realized what’s really been going on.

But, because he’s known Dean for years - knows that no matter how he asks, Dean will never break a promise - he changes the subject. “So, he’s not giving you the cold shoulder any more?”

“He asked if I was just waiting for him to come around.”

Benny sighs. “And you, like an idiot-”

“Told him the truth. That I was. That I would. Even if he never wanted to be with me, that I’d wait for him... I’d wait for him forever.”

“And he just up and kissed you?”

“Like he was dying. He... he said he was scared, and broken but...

“But?”

“But he wants to try. Benny, he wants to _try_.”

Dean doesn’t realize there are tears streaking down his face until they fall and cling, wetly, to his shirt.

“That’s great, brother. That’s great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: none.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel struggles, and Dean is there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, two updates this weekend. I felt that the previous chapter was so short, you guys deserved a little extra.
> 
> And, well, as of today, I have to put off updating for a while. I know, I'm sorry. But finals are in a week, I work full time, and now I have to manage the holidays while visiting family. Like, I'm going to be lucky if I get any sleep for the next month.
> 
> Don't fret; I have in no way abandoned this fic.
> 
> As always, any and all trigger warnings are noted at the end of the chapter for spoiler reasons. Please heed them. If you feel there is something I didn't warn for, please let me know so I can fix it.

The screen of Castiel's phone lights up. He smiles, though there’s an edge of anxiety behind the gesture. But when his father walks into the living room, however, he drops his phone back into his lap and turns his head toward the television.

“You sure you don’t want to come with me?” Chuck’s voice is soft, though there’s a teasing note to it. “It’s going to be fun.”

Castiel actually rolls his eyes. “You just want me to be the designated driver.”

“You’d need a driver’s license for that, first.”

“And whose fault is it that I don’t have one yet?” He cocks an eyebrow as he looks up at his dad from the couch.

This time, Chuck smiles and turns his eyes upward. “Your brother’s. Blame him.”

“Nope; you’re the parent, you take responsibility. It’s not his fault you let him get his permit at sixteen.”

Chuck pinches the bridge of his nose, obviously reminiscing over the antics of his eldest son. “Two weeks. He didn’t even make it two weeks before he got caught street racing."

"He bought a bright pink 1990 Corsica with flames up the sides. What did you think he was gonna do with it?"

There is a heartbeat of quiet that stretches between them before they both break down laughing. Castiel can still remember the day his brother was brought home by the police, handcuffed and grinning as though it was the funniest thing in the world. That was Gabriel, though; joker, prankster, trickster through and through.

"You going to invite anyone over?"

Castiel feels his the heat of his blush spread all the way down his neck. "No," he says, too quickly.

His dad smiles. Castiel had told his father about giving Dean a chance. He left out the bit about him kissing Dean within an inch of his life in broad daylight in the middle of their driveway, but did include Dean's sweet promise of taking things as slowly as Castiel needs to, wants to.

Well after sunset, Chuck kisses the top of his son's head as he grabs his coat from the armrest and asks, one last time, if Castiel would like to accompany him. Once more, Castiel declines, but wishes his father a good night.

Castiel sighs, revels in the quiet of the house. Not that his father's presence ever bothers him in the slightest; Castiel simply likes the quiet of the house when he knows he is the only one home. The fridge hums low in the kitchen, and the air ducts rattle as the system comes to life.

Finally, _finally_  he plucks up enough courage to glance at his phone. He has three messages from Dean.

 **Dean Winchester (4:37 pm)** : hey cas.

 **Dean Winchester (4:37 pm)** : did you know what chapters we were supposed to read for Englishman?

 **Dean Winchester (4:37 pm):**  ***english. damn autocorrect

Castiel smiles softly as he looks at the screen. His fingers lazily write a reply.

 **Castiel Novak (5:42 pm):**  Hello, Dean. We are supposed to read chapters five through seven.

He puts his phone down, his attention drifting back to the television, the soothing voice-over droning on about how crayons, of all things, are made. One might think such a show to be boring, but it always catches Castiel's interest when he glances over the guide menu with the remote. And maybe he can be a little boring - he's a teenager in highschool who prefers the company of books over that of other, living beings - but he's okay with that. He wants to like who he is, and he wants to be comfortable in his own skin. God knows how long he's hated himself for.

His phone chimes, and Castiel knows it's Dean without looking. There are four people on his contact list, so it's not hard to guess who might be texting him considering his father is out for the night, his brother is likely at a party, and his therapist doesn't work on the weekends (though she has assured Castiel time and time again that he is free to call her after hours if the need arises).

 **Dean Winchester (5:45 pm):**  thanks. hows ur saturday going?

 **Castiel Novak (5:46 pm)** : It's alright. My father is out with his band mates, celebrating their new album's release. I am enjoying the quiet.

 **Dean Winchester (5:47 pm):**  sorry man didnt mean to interrupt

 **Castiel Novak (5:48 pm):**  No need to apologize, I am just watching TV. I might read later.

 **Dean Winchester (5:50 pm):**  crazy night

 **Dean Winchester (5:51 pm):**   you maybe wanna grab a bite to eat?

Castiel freezes. He must hesitate for so long that Dean gets the message without Castiel even having to reply.

 **Dean Winchester (5:59 pm)** : sorry. too fast?

Castiel lets out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

 **Castiel Novak (6:00 pm):**  It's not you, Dean. I am sorry this is so hard for me.

 **Dean Winchester (6:00 pm):**  i meant it when i said I'd wait for you

He can feel his heartbeat in his hands, and they shake with only slight tremors. But Castiel knows that no matter how deeply Dean might mean those words now, it's only a matter of time before he, in all of his broken pieces, will be cast aside. He will be tired of, annoyed with, and Dean, like everyone else, will turn away from him and seek greener pastures, bluer skies.

Because, after all, who would want someone so broken?

Castiel almost texts back _you shouldn't_ , wants to let his fingers glide over the keys until it says, _I will only disappoint you_ , but some greedy part of him clenches tight and stops his fingers before they slip over the smooth screen.

Perhaps it's a little bit selfish, but in reply, Castiel sends two simple words:

 **Castiel Novak (6:02 pm** ) **:** Thank you.

If it means anything to Dean, Castiel doesn't find out. At least, not at first. His eyes, heavy and relaxed, drift closed, and he realizes that sleep is trying to weave its spell over him. He yawns and turns the TV to another channel, some Marvel movie rerun on a major network. He doesn't know the comics well, but the villain reminds him of his brother, so he lets the remote slide gingerly out of his fingers.

The soft afghan around his shoulders - a delicate brown, matched well with the darker gray of the couch, and knitted by his very own hands - is pulled tighter, and Castiel leans his head back, comforted by the scent of the fabric. He is lulled into the warm embrace of sleep with a smile on his face and a warmth in his heart.

He wakes up with quite the opposite.

It is a scream that actually pulls him from slumber, blood curdling and shrill, and his heart is stuck in his throat before he even has a chance to grab the remote. Castiel isn't sure what movie or show is on, but he knows that scream, the scream of someone rendered powerless by another's strength, of being taken advantage of, of being hurt for the sheer joy it brings those rending skin apart, burning, striking, until blood sluices down broken and unbroken skin alike, pooling on cold, unforgiving concrete, until his scream is nothing but a whisper and-

Castiel slaps a hand over his mouth when he realizes sound still permeates the room, but the TV is already off. He bites the flesh webbing between his thumb and forefinger just to give his mouth something to do other than make noise.

Now, with the TV off, the house is quiet, too quiet, eerily so, and Castiel pulls out his phone with his free hand and swipes open whatever song is first on his playlist queue. It's a band he likes, a song he knows, and he pulls his hand from his mouth so he can sing the words, so he can hear his own voice, make sure it still works.

Three songs play before his shoulders unclench, another two before his legs relax, and another five still before he feels he can push himself off the couch.

He wanders into the kitchen to fix something to eat. He's not hungry, not even a little bit, but he likes to cook and create, and he needs something to keep him busy, so he starts pulling dishes from the cupboard.

Already having a penchant for comfort food, he pulls a plastic package of corn tortillas from the bread drawer, and fills a high-rimmed frying pan with a good inch of vegetable oil, setting it atop the stove and cranking the dial up. Next comes the can of refried beans, which he empties - with a wet shcloping sound - into a smaller frying pan. He shreds cheese and lettuce, cuts black olives into slices, and readies his tongs as the oil gets up to temperature. The tortillas go in flat, and they puff up a bit as they fry. When Castiel goes to flip it, he pulls the shell against the side and folds it in half. The first three fry well, but when he gingerly slips the fourth tortilla round in, the edge flips up as it lands in the oil, and a few drips fly into the air...

And land on Castiel's arm.

The burn is immediate, hot and scalding on his skin, and when he screams, the sound jolts through him. Gooseflesh ripples up his arm, and it's not a moment later when his entire body shudders and heaves.

Castiel has enough wits about him for a bare heartbeat of clarity; he snaps the burners to the off position and pulls the pans from the heat. He swipes his hand across the countertop, nabbing his phone, and rockets upstairs.

He doesn't have time to tend the burn. He doesn't have the mind to turn on the light when he rushes into his room. And he doesn't have either when he crams himself into the back of his closet, dark and warm and hidden away.

He's sobbing into his sleeves when he hears it, the jaunty ring of his cell phone. It takes him a moment, but he quickly realizes that it's not the sound of his phone ringing, but rather the sound of someone else's ringing, and, with leaded limbs, Castiel peeks around the corner of his closet door. There, resting against the carpet, is his phone, lit screen face up.

"Hey, Cas." It's Dean's voice, mellow and low and  _solid_.

" _Dean_."

Castiel wants to bite his traitorous tongue off, wants to rip it right out of his mouth. The best he manages, however, is a half-choked sob before he fully collapses into panic.

 _Breathe out_ , he hears his therapist say. _In. Out. In. Out. Good, Castiel_.

He pictures her there with him, outside the closet door. He sees her smile, that warm look when he does something right, something good.

 _Think of your secret place, your happy place_ , her voice reminds him.

He puts himself in his sanctuary, the smell of the rain around him, mixing with the brick dust. He feels the mattress beneath him, can hear the way the wind sways the trees. It almost sounds like singing.

Like an actual melody.

His sanctuary flees his mind, replaced by low, gentle singing, warm notes filling his head.

_"Hey Jude, don't make it bad_  
_Take a sad song and make it better_  
_Remember to let her into your heart_  
_Then you can start to make it better."_

Dean is in his room, singing to him. Castiel almost chokes on his tongue he is so elated. New tears well up in the corners of his eyes, fall over and run down his cheeks.

_"Hey Jude, don't be afraid_  
_You were made to go out and get her_  
_The minute you let her under your skin_  
_Then you begin to make it better."_

Castiel eases out of his corner of his closet. His room is mostly dark, lit only by the gentle glow of the hallway lamp. But there, in the middle of his floor, is Dean, on his back, stomach up, neck bared.

Castiel chokes on another sob. Dean, _an Alpha_ , is surrendering his authority, going against his very instincts, to prove that he is no threat.

And doesn't it just make Castiel ache for him that much harder. He's still crying when he awkwardly shuffles over his shoes in order to reach Dean. "Please," he gasps as he crawls across the carpet, reaching out .

Dean turns his head to catch Castiel's eyes, but instead of moving his body further, he smiles. He stops singing to make room in his mouth for two simple words; "hey, Cas."

Castiel crawls to his side. "Please, get up. Please. Don't - not for me - you can't-"

Dean draws himself up into a sitting position, and he does so with great care, with a slowness that shows Castiel Dean is worried he might run. Once upright, he crosses his legs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

"I'm sorry. I've never really had many interactions with, uh, with-"

"Panic attacks," Castiel supplies, his gaze dropping.

"Yeah. Sorry about the singing. I wasn't... I wasn't sure what I could do for you, so I just started singing. When I was little, and had, like, a nightmare or something, my mom would sing to me."

Castiel wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. "I didn't mean to call you," he confesses, his throat sore.

Dean leans forward on his knees. His smile is kind and gentle. "I'm glad you did. I'd like to help, Cas, in any way I can."

The waterworks start anew; Castiel's breath catches in his throat as he chokes on a broken sob. He presses the heels of his palms against his closed eyes.

He hears Dean shuffle closer. "Cas?" His name is whispered.

Castiel hiccups in lieu of a verbal response.

"Can I - can I touch you? Is that alright?"

There is a pause - a heartbeat - when cold trickles down the back of Castiel's neck; he is torn between fleeing back into the closet and actually reaching his hand out toward Dean. Dean - who rushed to his house, who sang to him, who bared his throat in a show of submission - is _asking if he can touch Castiel_.

That’s not what Alphas do. Alphas do not ask - they take.

But in that instant, Castiel comes to realize that Dean isn’t a typical Alpha.

His hand reaches out, because what else can he possibly do? Dean's hands are warm against his own, though they are a little work-worn. The smell of coriander and a hint of mint invade Castiel's nose, and it's a potent mix that makes his heart stutter.

And there, in the dark of Castiel's bedroom, beneath the soft cotton of their shirts, their hearts glow, beat in tandem.

Dean's arms wind their way around Castiel, who finds himself scooting closer, seeking heat and warmth. He’s all but crawled into Dean’s lap, his knees resting over the other boy’s. Castiel can feel himself shaking so it comes as no surprise that Dean does, too. But, the Alpha doesn’t bring attention to it; his hands, with tender care, rub small circles up and down the length of Castiel’s back, and he brings his music out once more, this time without words, only gentle humming.

It’s either a minute or an eternity, but Castiel finds himself unable to care how long the moment stretches between them. Dean’s gentle hands on his back warm him through; the sweet melody that fills the air is soothing; the glow of their beating hearts is placating, almost hypnotic.

Eventually, Castiel stops seizing altogether. He feels stretched thin, taught, but not brittle. No, not this night; this night, he stands tall, having overcome his panic without his medication, with the help of his Alpha.

Castiel hiccups because he doesn’t know how else to hide a flinch. _His_  Alpha?

Dean pulls back, puts enough space between them so that they might look upon one another. He smiles, and his hands give Castiel’s a soothing squeeze.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

Dean’s smile doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. “If you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen, but I’m not going to force you to talk if you don’t want to.”

Castiel drops his eyes. It’s unconscious, instinctual, and apparently Dean won’t be having any of it. Calloused fingers lift Castiel’s face upwards, enough that their eyes catch. But Dean’s still smiling. He moves his fingers and drops his hands to entangle once again with Castiel’s. “I mean it, Cas. We’re taking this as slow as you need to, and I won’t push any boundaries if you shut me down.”

Castiel smiles, but it’s only to keep from crying again. Dean’s the sweetest, most kind Alpha he’s ever crossed paths with, and the glow that illuminates the space between them eases Castiel’s heart in a way he was never aware it could be soothed.

He leans forward, and Dean meets him halfway, their foreheads and noses pressing against one another. Tension melts away, and Castiel closes his eyes and smiles.

“Cas?”

“Dean?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Castiel hesitates. But he thinks back to the previous day, of Dean’s warm lips pressed firm against his own, of strong hands that gathered the fabric of his shirt to pull him close, of coriander and pine, a now just the barest hint of mint, and he feels his pulse quicken.

“... Yes.”

And not for the first time that night, Dean surprises Castiel. Instead of leaning forward and sealing their lips in a kiss, Dean brings their clasped hands together and gently kisses the back of Castiel’s hand.

Laughter erupts from Castiel, jubilant and unexpected. In response, he leans forward and delivers upon Dean’s lips a gentle kiss. He can feel Dean smile.

Maybe it won’t end so terribly.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: in-depth description of a panic attack, and minor injury (not inflicted by another character).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is astonished to find that he's actually made friends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long break between now and the previous update for this fic. Real life kind of kicked me in the ass, and it's only been recently that I've managed to get my shit together. I promise I'll update more frequently for the foreseeable future, and thanks, all, for the kind words; they keep me going.

No one bothers Castiel at school on Monday. He’s cloaked in Dean’s scent, even though he’s not wearing Dean’s jacket this time. Sure, a few looks are shot his way, but no one dares to speak of it until Castiel is no longer within earshot.

And can they be blamed? Even though only a handful of students had actually witnessed any part of the altercation between he, Dean, and Alastair in the library, everyone was _still_  talking about the outcome; all three of them had been sent to the principal’s office, yet only one of them had been reprimanded in any formality for the altercation.

Castiel allows his mind to wander as he pulls open his locker, emptying his backpack of the books he won’t need until his classes after lunch. He can still feel Dean’s lips against the back of his hand, the gentle pressure of their noses touching as they laughed, breath warm between them. Dean had stayed most of the night, after Castiel had calmed down, and they had simply talked. They talked about what music they liked, what food they liked. The conversation was kept light and airy, and it had done wonders to ease Castiel's nerves. When midnight rolled around, Dean's phone had blipped, and he let Castiel know that his mom wanted him home. Castiel had seen Dean out, walked with him to the front porch and, in a moment of bravery, had gifted Dean with a goodbye kiss. Dean had walked all the way to his car with a grin, and Cas wore one to match until he climbed in bed.

He wears the same grin when Charlie approaches him.

"Hey, Castiel."

Castiel regards her curiously. "Hi, Charlie. How was your weekend?"

"It blew. Girlfriend dumped me."

Castiel blinks. "Oh. I, uh. I didn’t know you, uh, were dating anyone.”

Charlie shrugs. "That's actually part of why I'm here. Got dumped, need a bad movie night with pals to help rehabilitate my broken spirit. You know; trashy movie, trashy food, enough popcorn to legally kill us."

"Oh. That sounds fun."

"Awesome. So, we usually start around six on Friday, but Jo's softball practice is that night, so we're meeting closer to seven, seven-thirty-ish."

Castiel freezes, fumbles. "I - Uh..."

Waving her hand through the air, Carlie continues as if she doesn't hear him. "Since it's your first time, you don't have to bring anything, but next time, we expect goodies. I'll be bringing chips and dip, Jo's got drinks covered, Garth and Benny are bringing cupcakes this time - hand-made, since they lost a bet."

Castiel swallows thickly. "Oh. Al-alright."

"Awesome!" Charlie plucks a pen from her pocket and tugs Castiel's hand free. When she pulls away, there are seven digits written in blue upon his palm. "That is my number - shoot me a text sometime and I'll let you know whose house we decide to crash."

Someone down the hallway shouts Charlie's name. She squeezes Castiel's shoulder as she lets him know she will see him around.

Gym approaches quickly, or so it seems to Castiel's hazy mind. Charlie, Dean's friend, had asked him to hang out with her and the rest of Dean's group of friends. He doesn't really know what to make of it, but Garth greets him warmly as they partner up for basketball drills. "Charlie said you're gonna come to movie night."

"Um, yes. I think?"

That earns Castiel a laugh. "You think? Hey, if you don't wanna come, you don't have to. Won't hurt our feelings. We know sometimes people have other stuff going on." Garth's gentle, earnest smile hides nothing.

Castiel thinks on that. He thinks on it through gym, and he thinks on it as he changes in the privacy of the bathroom stall. He thinks on it as he waits for Dean to meet him in the hallway so they can walk to lunch together.

It doesn't take a bloodhound to know something is wrong. "Cas? You okay?"

Brow furrowed, Castiel shakes his head. "Charlie invited me to movie night."

Dean is quiet for a while. "You don't want to go?" he finally ventures.

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't understand why I was invited."

Dean stops. "You don't what?"

Sighing, Castiel looks to the floor. "They don't have to be nice to me just because we're..."

"Together?" But Dean is smiling as he says it.

Castiel shifts uncomfortably.

"They aren't, like, gonna give you special treatment, if that's what you are worried about."

"They don't have to be nice to me."

That makes Dean pause. "Wait. Cas, are you worried they're only inviting you to be polite or something?"

Castiel's silence speaks volumes.

Dean reaches out and tenderly laces their fingers together. "Look," he sighs. "They aren't inviting you to be polite. They're inviting you because they like you and want to get to know you better."

It shouldn't twist his stomach into such knots, but it does. "And what if they decide they don't like me?"

Castiel jumps when Dan plants a gentle kiss to the back of his hand. "Then they can shove it up their asses." And Dean keeps walking, like that is the end of the conversation, like there isn't anything else to discuss.

"What time are you going?"

Dean shakes his head. "Can't make it. Bobby needs an extra hand at the garage, and I already promised I'd help out."

The bottom falls out of Castiel's stomach. Dean must catch the anxiety spike, because one moment he is walking down a crowded hallway and the next he feels strong hands on his elbows. Dean rests their foreheads together. It's reminiscent of the way they'd shared space over the weekend, and Castiel instantaneously relaxes to a slight degree. Even though they touch, their glow is obstructed by a few layers of clothing.

"If you don't want to go, you don't have to go. They'll understand."

Castiel nods his head, but it's more reaction than acquiescence.

Dean, however, reads right through it. He catches Castiel's gaze, his own steady. "I told you; we will go as slow as you need, and that includes anything around us. If you aren't comfortable around my friends just yet, that's okay."

Castiel steals a quick kiss, and Dean blushes, obviously not having expected such a reaction. A smile makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, which in turn makes Castiel smile. The heavy knits of his sweater hides his glow, but Castiel can  _feel_  it, and knows Dean can, too.

"Wanna do lunch, just the two of us today?"

Castiel knows he is being selfish. But, maybe he _can_  have something he wants for a change.

 

\-----

 

On Friday, Castiel finds himself in the passenger's seat of his dad's car, being driven to Jo's place. He has a sneaking suspicion that Jo's house was picked because her mother, Castiel's English teacher, is someone Castiel already trusts. Even if Dean didn't share the story of their encounter when Castiel had broken apart with his friends, Ellen - who insisted Castiel use her first name when they are out of school - didn't seem to have said anything to Jo. Regardless of the reasons behind the motive, Castiel does find himself more at ease knowing there is an adult he trusts on the other side of the house. His dad, having met Ellen at the door, stays and chats for a few minutes, thanking her for having the gaggle of high schoolers over. Though Castiel's dad doesn't say it outright, it's obviously implied that if Ellen needs to, she can call him if anything goes wrong.

Castiel hugs his father goodbye, with a promise to call when he's ready to come home, and then is quickly ushered upstairs by the smiling faces of Jo and Charlie. Jo's room is surprisingly large and is mostly tastefully decorated. The quantifier 'mostly' applies only because Castiel is surprised at how many knives she has on her walls, of many a make and model; butterfly, switchblade, hell, there is even an ancient-looking dagger up there. He doesn't comment about it, however, and Jo offers nothing by way of an explanation.

Benny shows up next, Garth slinking in a few minutes afterward, both carrying Tupperware laden with goodies.

Castiel opens his rucksack and pulls out his own container of cookies: homemade chocolate banana pudding.

"Oh my God, Cas; I hope my next girlfriend likes a little wiggle-jiggle, because I won't be able to stop myself from eating _all_ of these." Charlie's eyes roll back as she shoves an entire cookie in her mouth. Her puffed out cheeks reminds Castiel of the fat squirrel that sometimes sits in the window of his sanctuary, and he can't hide his laughter.

It’s the first time Castiel’s felt comfortable in his own skin in... a long time. Years, maybe. He listens to the others as they complain about homework and school, listens as Charlie tells everyone what really happened between her and her ex, even offers her a gentle pat on the back when she sheds a few tears. They eat junk food and watch trashy movies, laugh amongst one another like kids, like they are supposed to, and Castiel finds that his heart is light, finds that he’s around other people and isn’t scared, finds that he can be himself and, _god_ , does it feel good to let his guard down.

Halfway through the second movie - some atrocious garbage he can’t remember the name of - there comes a soft knock on the door to Jo’s bedroom. Benny pauses the movie while Jo untangles her feet from the comforter on her bed and steps between and over sprawled legs as she crosses her bedroom. Dean stands in the doorway, a lopsided smile on his face.

“ _Dean_.” Cas’ voice is full of surprise and joy. He almost feels embarrassed, but the feeling dissolves when Dean sits next to him on the bed, their bodies touching from hip to ankle. The movie resumes and everyone turns their attention back to the TV.

Dean smiles as he leans in toward Cas. “Got done early. Figured you guys would still be here.”

"I'm glad you came,” Cas whispers.

A flash of concern marrs Dean's face. "Everything okay?"

Cas smiles. "It is now," he whispers softly. The thick layers of their clothing still hides their glow, but Castiel swears he can feel the heat of it on his skin.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel comes to the stark realization that maybe good things can happen to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a little bit of the dirty. I'm winking here, but since you can't physically see me, you're just going to have to take my word for it.
> 
> Thanks, everyone, for being so patient. I'm working on, like, five other WIPs I'm working on, I'm in school full time, and, oh yeah, I pretty much had pneumonia. That's what the cool kids are doing now, right? Almost dying? It still hurts to breathe, but at least I don't feel like a dumpster fire. Things are coming up Milhouse, now!
> 
> As usual, trigger warnings are located in the note section at the end of this chapter.

Autumn is in full swing; the trees are nearly bare, and there is a layer of frost that lasts even after the sun has risen. The days are shorter, there are pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns adorning many a stoop throughout the neighborhood, and Castiel has taken his electric blanket out of the closet for those nights where his comforter and a pair of wool socks just won't cut it.

Castiel only realizes it's Halloween when he arrives at school and notices many other students, as well as a few of the faculty, are dressed in costumes. He finds Dean leaning against his locker dressed as Indiana Jones.

"I feel a little out of place," he admits.

"Didn't feel like dressing up?" Dean asks, waving at Charlie as she passes by, decked out in full Hogwarts robes.

"Forgot it was Halloween," he admits with a chuckle. "I've never really been a fan."

"Never been a fan? I freakin' love Halloween; I get to dress up as someone else, and I get to eat enough candy to make myself sick."

Cas laughs. "Aren't you a little too old for trick or treating?" He closes his locker and slips his hand into Dean's.

"My mom always buys too much to hand out. But don't tell her I said that, because the bowl is empty at the end of the night." He winks at Cas as they near the point in the hall where they split to head to their separate classes. "See you at lunch?"

Cas smiles and nods, and Dean places a kiss on the back of his hand as they part ways.

After gym, Dean waits for Cas outside of the locker room, but the way he fidgets makes Cas worry. "Are you alright, Dean?"

Dean bites his lip. "You, uh. You wanna come over for dinner at my place tonight?"

Cas isn't blind-sighted by the request. His own father has been dropping hints that Cas should ask Dean over to their house for dinner for quite some time. That, however, doesn't mean he feels ready for it, either, and his stomachs drops a little as a nervous feeling makes his skin prickle.

"I know it's short notice, but I... I just didn't want to push you or anything, because I know we're taking it slow-"

"Dean."

"And it's not like you haven't met my parents before - they were at your house the day we found out we were True Mates-"

"Dean."

"But, I mean, they didn't get a chance to talk to you or anything, and since they know we're dating now, they would really like to meet you and-"

" _Dean_."

Dean stops, grimaces, but it only makes Cas smile. "I would love to have dinner with you and your family."

The smile that lights Dean's face eases Cas' worries. "Good. That's. Yeah, awesome."

 

\- - - - - - -

 

Cas' palms are sweaty and hot. His throat is dry, and his stomach hurts. He's nervous, scared, and he knows that Dean can smell as much on him. They are three blocks from Dean's house, and the Impala's engine is off. There are a few younger kids about in costume, already several handfuls of candy deep into trick or treating.

Cas hasn't had a panic attack in over a week, and while there are times anxiety sinks it's ugly claws in the back of his neck, it never reaches a full attack. Over a week now and the small pill pocket in Cas' jeans has remained stationary.

But right now, his fingers are _itching_  for it.

When Dean says his name, Cas flinches. He doesn't mean to, but it happens regardless.

"You don't have to do this."

Castiel swallows. He wipes his hands on his jeans, traces his fingers around the shape of the pill pocket in his pants. "I... I..."

And then Dean is there, threading his fingers through Cas' own, and his hands are sweaty, too.

"I can take you home. No one is going to judge you."

Cas told his dad that he'd be gone for dinner, and Chuck had said he was proud of him. He texted Gabriel, who replied back with no less than 25 thumbs-up emoticons. He could do this. He could do this, _god dammit_.

"I want to try," he says at last, swallowing the lump in his throat, ignoring the churning in his stomach. "I want to try," he repeats, squeezing Dean's hand, and he means it. He truly means it. Dean starts the car back up, and slowly drive up the street, carefully turning into the driveway of his house and turning off the engine. As Cas shuts the car door behind him, he turns to find Dean already waiting for him, hand outstretched.

They cross the threshold of the front door, their hands clasped.

Mary Winchester meets them just inside, and the first thing Cas notices about her is the kindness in her eyes. She smiles warmly.

"Hey, mom. You, uh, you remember my mom, Mary?"

Cas stretches his hand out, but it's brushed aside when Mary moves in for a hug. The circle of her arms is warm, and while Cas startles at first, unprepared for the sudden contact, he soon melts into the touch. She smells like lavender and laundry fresh out of the dryer, and Cas bites his cheeks when memories of his mother - good ones - rise to the forefront of this mind.

"It's nice to see you again, Cas," she says to the side of his head. When she lets go, she holds him at arm's length, her hands on his shoulders. "I'm glad you were able to come." She reaches over and pulls her son in for a hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Dinner won't be ready until your dad gets home."

"Alright. We'll be upstairs."

Cas follows Dean upstairs, noting how the entire house smells earthy and comforting. One side of the staircase is covered in framed school pictures of both Sam and Dean, their respective grades written in the bottom corners. The hallway itself has a myriad of pictures, too; Mr. Winchester and the boys fishing; a younger Dean working on his precious car; Jo, Dean, and several other people Cas can't name.

Dean's room is much the same, but the photographs that line the wall aren't framed. There are a few out of place patches of bare wall here and there. "It looks like you're missing a few pictures,” Cas comments off-handedly.

Dean turns and freezes, looking a little shocked that Cas even noticed. "They, uh... I... I found my True Mate," he sputters. "I thought it a little low-class to have pictures of any of my ex's, so I got rid of ‘em."

There it is, sitting in his stomach like a stone; jealousy, unbidden, unwelcome. Castiel swallows, averting his eyes, wishing he hadn't walked himself into an awkward spot. God, his stupid mouth, no finesse, no-

He startles when Dean laces their fingers together. "Hey," he says, hesitant, and Cas can see the fear in his eyes. "They're nothing."

Cas sighs. "They're not nothing, Dean. They meant something to you at the time." He watches as Dean swallows, averting his eyes. "Your past shapes you. It's behind you, but it's never _nothing_."

Dean tugs their twined hands closer, pulls Cas in nearer, their bodies nearly touching, but not quite. "Can I... Can I kiss you?"

Cas' heart flutters. Dean always asks when he means to kiss him anywhere but the back of his hands. Always. His smile is easy as he leans in, and Dean's eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles in return. Their lips press together, soft and warm, and Cas lets his eyes close when one of Dean's hands slides down to rest at his hip. The fabric of Dean's shirt is gathered tightly in his hands as Cas takes a step forward, lining up their bodies, and he sinks into the warm embrace of Dean's arms.

It's not always so easy. Nothing is easy for Castiel. But, sometimes, he forgets; he forgets that he's not whole, broken into so many pieces that sometimes waking up and sorting through those pieces is the easiest part of his day, forgets how he's tainted, forgets the jagged scar where his neck and collarbone meet.

Dean's fingers start to wander - a thumb pressing against a belt loop, a knuckle tracing a line of stitching on his pants - and when Cas feels the sensation of skin on skin, he jumps. Dean startles, too, and takes a small step back, allowing Castiel his space.

"You, uh. Sorry. You okay?"

Cas' hands fidget, one holding the other tightly. "Tickled." It's not a complete lie, and if Dean can see through it, he's kind enough to not push it.

The mood is gone, but Dean smiles sweetly anyway, as if he’s thankful to have any part of Cas that the Omega is willing to give.

"You have so many books," Cas observes, motioning to the shelf behind Dean.

Dean turns a bit to glance at it, shrugging. "Got a few new ones last week. You're free to borrow anything that catches your eye."

Cas steps around Dean, his eyes wandering from cover to cover. "You've read The Mistborn Trilogy?"

"Three times, now."

"Kingkiller Chronicles?"

"And Auri's companion book. Wish he’d hurry up with the next one, though."

"Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy?"

" _And_ The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe."

"Only one Stephen King?"

"Salem's Lot is the only one I could get through, really, but I've got The Dark Tower series in graphic novels around here somewhere."

"Gaiman, too."

"American Gods is one of my favorites.”

They talk of books for what must be hours, trading theories of upcoming titles. Legs crossed and knees touching, they sit atop Dean's bed and lean in close to one another, sharing inside jokes, sharing air. By the time Mary calls them down for supper, it’s well past sunset.

Even though it’s a foreign place, Dean’s house smells like him, and Cas finds himself letting his guard down.

John Winchester is a formidable man, or at least Cas thinks such as Dean’s father walks into the kitchen from the back door. He’s an Alpha, and as much is clear with the way he carries himself; his back is straight, his shoulders square, and he walks with his chin held high; he’s confident in a way that Castiel has noticed so many Alphas always seem to be.

Castiel doesn’t mean to move, but his instincts kick in when he and John’s eyes catch, and Cas flinches, almost as if he’d been struck. Dean’s back is turned toward him, which means he doesn’t see Cas’ movement, but Mary’s eyes grow wide from where she’s staring at him from over Dean’s shoulder. She instantaneously moves to rectify the situation, and puts herself between Cas and her husband, who turns his gaze from Cas to meet that of his wife.

“Honey, why don’t you go wash up? The boy’s will help me finish setting the table.”

John nods, though he casts a glance in Cas’ direction before he begins toward the small annex on the other side of the kitchen, where Cas can see the corner of a large apron sink peeking around a doorframe.

Setting the table is easy, and Cas finds that he rather likes Mary’s dishes; they are white, round, and lined with delicate hand-painted flowers.

Sam skids into the kitchen in his socks, grinning at Castiel, but Mary gives him a handful of silverware and tells him to get to work. He and the younger Winchester finish the table settings while Dean fills every glass with ice water from a pitcher he then places in the middle of the table.

They all sit when John enters the room again, and Castiel, though he can't quite place the reason, feels a sliver of unease.

Castiel thanks Mary for the wonderful-looking meal and her sons quickly follow suit through mouthfuls of mashed potatoes.

“So,” John starts in, halfway through the meal. “What's it like being an Omega?”

Dean chokes on his food, but recovers quickly.

“John!” Mary grinds out through gritted teeth.

The Winchester paterfamilias, however, looks on, unphased.

Castiel takes a moment to gather his wits. He'd forgotten his dad had told the Winchesters, in confidence, about his status.

“Difficult,” Castiel replies, though he's sure his face has gone white. He doesn't meet John's gaze. “Simply because of how I was born, I can be denied scholarships and jobs, overlooked for promotions or denied the right to drive or travel internationally, and there is nothing I can legally do about it. What's worse is that there are those who protest what little rights I already have, using archaic ideology as their soap box, stating things like how I should be kept at home, away from prying eyes, like some kind of _object_ , some kind of exotic _toy_. I will have to wear scent blockers and take heat suppressants for the rest of my life. I will always be treated like a second class citizen, never be taken seriously, never to be allowed to follow every dream I have, always a slave to my instincts and nature, regardless of how I actually feel. In short, Mr. Winchester, being an Omega is a _terrible burden_.”

Silence but silence permeates the room. When Castiel gathers enough courage to look up, he's startled to find how much shock and anger is written across Mary's face, while her husband looks on, nonchalant, nonplussed.

“Sounds rough, son.”

If it's an apology, it's a piss poor one, and apparently Mary thinks so, too, because she grabs her husband _by his ear_ and marches him out the back door.

Sam sits across the table, stone-still, wide-eyed, forkful of roast halfway to his mouth.

“Dean?” Castiel ventures, staring steadily down at his hands. “I'd like to go home.”

Dean's chair screeches across the floor as he stands, and Castiel flinches at the sound, but covers it up quickly as he stands. He walks behind Dean toward the front door, and past him when the boy opens it for him. By the time he's seated in the Impala, he's shaking.

Even when he feels Dean's eyes on him, Castiel doesn't look up. He doesn't want to see the anger and hurt in Dean's gaze or written on his beautiful, freckled face.

The drive home is completely silent save for the purr of Baby's engine. When the sound is suddenly cut off, Castiel is pulled from his thoughts. He looks through the windshield and sees that he's home, knows that soon he'll be in the safety and comfort of his own room and can cry there, where nothing can hurt him, least of all words.

He turns to thank Dean for the ride, but falls short when he sees Dean's face. There are wet trails down his cheeks, and his eyes are red.

“Dean?” For a moment, Castiel forgets his own discomfort.

“I'm sorry, Cas,” the boy croaks out.

Castiel shakes his head. “It's just how the world is.” It's not a good answer, but it's the only one he has.

“If anyone ever talks to you like that again, I swear to God, Cas, I’ll-”

“Dean, it's alright, I-”

“ _It's not alright!_ ” Dean looks wild, angry. “I should have spoken up, I should have said something. My dad's a fucking idiot, grew up in a different time, but that's not an excuse. You have to stand up for yourself, Cas. You can't let people treat you like that. You're a person not a - a _commodity_!”

The words ring in Castiel's ears until he's sure he's gone deaf. God, this boy before him, righteous and kind, and so, _so beautiful_ ; how did the universe know he was exactly what Castiel needed?

Braver than he has been in a long while, Cas cups Dean's face in his hands and seals their lips together in a kiss.

For a moment, Dean is still. For a moment, Cas thinks maybe, just maybe, he's done something wrong.

But then that moment ends, and Dean is crowding into Cas’ space, greedily pushing into the kiss as though he might die if it ends. Cas’ heart feels light, his skin aflame, as Dean's hands grip at his waist, cup the back of his head.

And Cas, because he _wants_ to know, _needs_ to know, opens his mouth to the kiss. Dean's tongue doesn't rush in but takes its time. He traces the bow of Cas’ lips, cherry pink and tingling, causing Cas to shudder and gasp for breath. It's like he's been struck by lightning. He's suddenly shaking, for a completely new, somewhat foreign reason, and it makes him gasp. Dean seizes the opportunity to capture Cas’ lower lip in his teeth, pulling gently, the friction of teeth on skin delightful on a level Cas didn't know _existed_.

Dean is suddenly a blur of motion, and Castiel opens his eyes and shifts his weight only to discover he's suddenly straddling Dean’s lap, who looks absolutely  _wrecked_ beneath him. Dean's breathing fast, his lips puffy and red from their reverent kisses, eyes half lidded and rimmed in gold.

Castiel's heart catches.

He did this to Dean. _Him_. Castiel, sprightly Omega, who flinches and cowers and hates himself a hundredfold, reduced an Alpha, _his Alpha_ , to putty.

It's heady, this feeling, to be wanted, desired so. Dean's nostrils flare, and Cas realizes that, despite his scent blockers, Dean is likely picking up on the rush of want he's exuding.

“Tell me this is too much,” Dean croaks, pressing a kiss to Cas’ temple. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Castiel stands at a crossroad. To take one path, all he has to do is simply utter the word 'no’ and Dean will stop. Cas knows he will. His Alpha is strong, but kind, wants him to be happy and comfortable. The other path? Cas’ heartbeat quickens with the promise of what he'll find where he once feared to tread...

In a move that surprises even himself, Cas pulls back the slightest bit, takes a deep breath, then tips his head back and bares his neck for his Alpha.

Dean _shudders_ beneath him.

Castiel tenses, poised for an onslaught of sensation, but Dean doesn't move to attack his throat, doesn't pounce or ravish.

Instead, Dean presses a gentle kiss to the underside of Cas’ throat.

The simple press of lips to skin sends a jolt of want through Castiel's body, his nerves lighting up in a way he never thought possible, at least not for him. He feels Dean pull in a shuddering breath under him, warm gust coasting over his neck, setting his body aflame. Cas’ breath hitches when Dean presses another kiss to his throat, open-mouthed and scorching-hot.

“Cas,” Dean gasps beneath him, and for every moment Cas has ever felt helpless in his life, in this moment he knows what it's like to be _powerful_.

The thought makes him giddy.

When Dean kisses his throat again, Castiel rolls his hips down. Dean's hard in his jeans, something that Cas thought would terrify him. The action is followed by a rush of adrenaline, sure, but it doesn't send Cas reaching for the pill box in his pocket, doesn't cause him to fall into a spiral of panic. His blood is rushing in his ears, and his heart is practically beating its way out of his chest, but Castiel is _alright_.

And, oh, does it make him courageous.

He grinds down again, gasping when he feels he's hard, too, pressing himself down against Dean's lap. He closes his eyes as he moves, grinds their cocks together, the rigid seams of his denim jeans digging into his skin in a way that can only be described as delicious.

Below him, Dean raises his hips just a bit, his hands fitting snugly along Cas’ waist, plush mouth pressing kisses at the juncture of his jaw. “ _Cas_ ,” he pants.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas cries, his head thrown back, his eyes closed tight. They've barely just started and already Cas is rushing toward the finish line. He can feel heat coil in his belly, the air thick with the promise of lightning.

“Cas, baby, I’m-” Dean's breath hitches, and Cas sucks in a deep breath, shaking with the thought that while he's already almost there, Dean is _right behind him_.

“Touch me, Dean,” Cas begs, his voice high and tight. “Touch me, _Alpha_.”

Dean's responding growl makes Cas’ breath stick his lungs, but what pushes him over the edge is the combination of Dean's warm palm pressed against his cock and the gentle, but firm, bite Dean places below his ear

Cas cries out as he comes, his head floating and his limbs going fuzzy for just a moment.

Beneath him, Dean jerks, then stills, breath rushing through his nose.

Pitching forward, Cas feels boneless. He rests his forehead against Dean's shoulders as he catches his breath. His heartbeat slows gradually, despite still feeling like he's floating. Dean's hands coast up and down his back in a placating manner, but it isn't long before Cas catches the sour scent of uncertainty.

His heart sinks.

This is where Dean will pull back, pull away, tell him it’s all been a mistake. Who could possibly want him? He's broken, defiled, _used_ , and-

“God, you're beautiful.”

Cas pulls back out of surprise, his eyes wide and his mouth slack.

Dean reaches up and cups his face with his palm. “Was that - that wasn't too much for you, was it? Too fast?”

Another spike of uncertainty.

Castiel's breath catches. He pushes forward and kisses Dean, who seems surprised by the action, but smiles and kisses Castiel back all the same. His Alpha was worried for him, worried he’d crossed a line, moved too fast for him. Their kisses slow, turn gentle and small, and Castiel flushes with the thought of what they'd just done. He pulls away slightly, turns his head, hides his eyes from Dean's.

“Cas?”

Castiel swallows, feeling embarrassed. He'd never been one to give into carnal desire, and here he sat, astride Dean's lap, come cooling in his pants.

“Don't hide, sweetheart,” Dean says, kissing Cas’ temple. “What's on your mind?”

Cas’ heart kicks up, and he feels the icy grip of panic slowly closing in now that he's out of the heat of the moment. “I - I'm not, I mean I've never...” He sighs, frustrated he can't formulate his thoughts into coherent sentences.

“If that was too much, that's all you have to say.”

The honesty in Dean's tone eases his nerves momentarily.

“But can I be honest?”

Turning his head, Cas meets Dean's gaze again, curious.

“That was just about the hottest thing I've ever done in my life.”

Cas feels his cheeks burn red and he turns his face away, but panic doesn't descend.

Dean kisses his cheek, noses at his hairline lovingly. “I mean it, Cas.”

With his eyes averted, it's the first time Castiel realizes he can just barely see the gentle glow of their hearts between them. His body relaxes, tension draining from his limbs.

Maybe he can have this. Maybe good things _can_ happen to him.

He doesn't realize he's grinning until Dean kisses the corner of his mouth, smiling just as wide.

Dean helps Cas off his lap, out of the Impala, and walks him to the front door. At the threshold, he takes Cas’ hands in his own, pressing a kiss to Cas’ knuckles. “I'm sorry again about my dad,” he sighs. “You gonna be okay?”

Cas nods, but doesn't know what else he can say. Still feeling brave, he learns forward and kisses Dean goodbye. He closes his front door and walks upstairs to his bedroom, dropping his jacket on the floor next to his bed, and glances out the window when he realizes that he hasn't heard Dean's car pull out of the driveway. Curious, he peers through the curtains.

Dean's sitting in the driver's seat, his eyes unfocused, turned toward the steering wheel. On his face is the biggest grin Castiel has ever seen someone wear. He watches as Dean scrubs his face with his hands, smiling as he puts his baby into reverse and backs out of the driveway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: sexism, invasive thoughts/thoughts of poor self-worth, mild panic issues, grinding, coming in yo pants


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has time to think some things over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life is a bitch. Sorry these updates are slow-coming.
> 
> Chapter warnings at the end.

Dean may be floating through the clouds while he drives back to his house, but the moment he pulls into the driveway and sees that his dad's truck is still missing, his mood sours exponentially. He shuts baby's door a little harder than he means to, and is glad no one is in the living room when he opens the front door and takes off his shoes.

First thing’s first; he needs a shower.

He locks the bathroom door behind him, and strips down while the water warms. Dean can still smell Castiel's sweet scent on him, and he closes his eyes and revels in it. _God,_ Cas had looked so good on his lap, lips kiss-swollen, eyes half-lidded, panting Dean's name. There's never going to be a time he jerks off and _doesn't_ see that mental image in the forefront of his imagination. He's not in the mood to get riled up again, however, so no matter how tantalizing the thought, he pushes Cas from his mind.

He finishes his shower, and spends a few minutes wrapped up in a towel, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet and messing with his phone, checking his email. Dean can hear his mom downstairs in the kitchen, and knows that she's heard the water turn off in the bathroom, so it's only a matter of time before she comes to speak with him.

Sighing, surmising he might as well get it over with, Dean leaves the safety of the bathroom and walks to his room.

As if summoned by magic, his mom knocks on his door the moment he's fully dressed.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, but moves his hand before he tells his mom to come in.

“Sweetie?” Mary calls as she pushes the door open. “Is Cas okay?”

Nodding, Dean smiles. It's just like his mom to be worried about Cas. What's precious to her boys is precious to her. “Yeah, I left when I made sure he was gonna be alright.”

Mary grimaces. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Dean clenches and unclenches his fists a few times. “I just didn’t think it would be like this. That first night when I told you guys that I’d found my true mate, and we all went to Cas’ house... I thought he was okay with it. He never brought it up before.”

“Your dad grew up in a different time. He’s still getting used to the fact that the world is changing, that his views are already becoming archaic. I know he sees Cas as a person, but I wasn’t aware that he didn’t see him as an equal.”

Across the room, Dean sighs, frustrated. “Where is he?”

Mary shakes her head. “I told him he needs to let you cool down for a while. I bet he’ll be over at Bobby’s tonight.”

Dean debates driving to Bobby’s house and giving his dad a piece of his mind.

His mom, however, seems to read his thoughts. She draws him into a hug and kisses his cheek. “I know. Trust me, I made sure he knew how bad he messed up tonight. Don’t be surprised if he’s away for a few days, after the chewing-out I gave him.”

Dean sighs in the envelope of his mother’s arms, grateful that he has someone so genuine in his life. If it wasn’t for his mom...

“Love you, mom,” he says.

From across the house, they hear the doorbell ring. Dean, having forgotten it was Halloween, slips from his mother’s grasp and jogs to the front door, opening the front door after nabbing the bowl of candy off the table lining the wall. Three young boys, all dressed as various superheroes, shout, “trick or treat!” in perfect unison. Dean is all smiles as he hands out half a handful of candy to each of them.

After the kids retreat back toward their parents, Dean waves and shuts the door, the smile instantly dropping off his face.

His mother studies him, concerned look on her face.

Dean doesn't smile to reassure her. Instead, he shakes his head and crosses his arms. “What if Dad runs his mouth? What if he lets slip that Cas is an Omega?”

Mary's face hardens. “Dean, he wouldn't-”

“You know how vindictive he can be.”

“Dean, your father knows that if he tries to hurt Cas in any way, he will deal with _me_.”

The way his mother emphasizes 'me’ makes Dean swallow past the lump in his throat. “Cas is...”

His mother tilts her head, curious.

“Something is wrong with Cas.”

Mary's hand flies over her heart and she takes a step toward her son.

“No, like...” Dean sighs and plops himself down on the couch. After a moment, the cushions dip and his mother settles at his side. “Nothing's wrong with him. Not, like, physically, from what I can tell. But he... We’re going slow. And hey, that's fine. He's my True Mate; I'm not going anywhere. But it's just... Every time I touch him, and he's not expecting it, he flinches. I'll put my hand on his shoulder or something and he just, I don't know, shuts down, goes all stiff. I don't mind being patient. That's not it. He's just so closed up all the time and I don't... I've been making sure I'm what he needs, moving slow, asking if I can, like, hold his hand and all that. I just...”

“You don't know what's wrong, and you're too kind to ask.”

Dean hangs his head. Thank the stars his mom is the most down to earth person he knows. “I want him to tell me, but I can't just _ask_.”

Mary sighs, looping her arm through Dean's and resting her head on his shoulder. “You're an Alpha, Dean; it's in your nature to want to protect your mate, even if you don't know what you're protecting him from. Cas seems like he's got a good head on his shoulders. A little skittish, sure, but given his nature, I can understand. Either you can wait for him to come around, or you can ask.”

It's not the answer he was hoping for, but his mom's never told him something he didn't need to hear. He nods, hugs his mom, and, without a word, they curl against one another as Mary flips on the TV. They spend the rest of the night watching cheesy Halloween movies, every so often getting up to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. Sam calls and asks if he can stay with a friend, and part of Dean is secretly relieved that he gets more time with his mother.

Dean texts Cas a few times over the rest of weekend, but their conversations are never more than a few messages long. On Monday, back at school, Dean waits by Cas’ locker, feeling anxious and nervous that things have changed between them, perhaps not for the better.

But Castiel’s smile as he approaches where Dean stands erases all doubt from his mind.

It’s hardly been over a month, but already Dean knows he’s in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: none


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguments are inevitable in a relationship...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, warnings for this chapter are at the bottom.

Castiel shifts in his desk chair, not frustrated, but growing tired. Mathisn’t his favorite subject - though he’s maintaining a B average for the class - but Dean had asked for his help when he managed to narrowly avoid failing the last exam by the skin of his teeth. And it’s not that Dean’s having a hard time understanding the material that’s tiring Castiel out - that’s not it, not at all; it’s Dean’s inability to believe in himself in this particular aspect that is starting to wear on Castiel’s nerves.

“You had the answer the first time, you just moved the decimal point too far to one side. It’s alright.”

Dean sighs, runs a hand down his face in exasperation. “When am I _ever_ gonna use this kind of stuff outside of high school?”

Castiel carefully places his mechanical pencil down on his desk, then turns in his chair to face Dean a little better. He’s quiet for a moment, gathering his words. Dean looks up at him, biting his lip.

“You might not think too highly of it now, Dean, but it’s fairly likely you’ll use something taught in this class later in life. Calculus is used by architects, by space flight and electrical engineers.”

“Yeah, I guess. But it’s not like I’m going to go into any of those professions.”

“Maybe not, but I use math when I need to alter a pattern when I’m knitting or crocheting.”

Dean leans back at that. “Really?” His face is equal parts skepticism and intrigue.

Cas points to the throw on the bottom of his bed. “I made that last year. I didn’t have enough yarn to finish the whole blanket, and I didn’t want to get more since sometimes the colors can be off if yarn isn’t from the same dye lot, so I had to figure out how much yarn I had left versus how much the pattern required so when I finished it, it wasn’t cut off at a weird length.”

Crossing his arms, Dean’s face sours. “Fine, you use this stuff from time to time. But I’m not planning on going to college after I graduate anyway, so I don’t think it really-”

“You don’t want to go to college?” Castiel seems surprised by this. Dean may not earn the best grades, but he’s smarter than most, or at least Castiel seems to think so. He himself has witnessed Dean’s writing prowess in their english class first-hand.

Dean shrugs, like he’s had the conversation a million times and is sick of it. “I’m not smart enough to get into college.”

“You don’t need straight A’s to get into college. The community colleges around the area take just about anyone that doesn’t pull an F average.”

When Dean rolls his eyes at this, Castiel feels a pang of hurt blossom in his chest.

“No one is going to force you to go to college, Dean, but I think you have the potential.”

“And what about _you_?”

Castiel falls completely silent at the remark. His insides churn. “It’s different. I actually _want_ to go, and as much as I think I’m ready for it, I don’t really know if it’s possible.” He doesn’t mean to, but the way he speaks the words is nearly monotone. He’s hurt; he can’t help it.

Dean grimaces, obviously feeling guilty over his choice of words. “That’s not what I - Cas, you’re -”

“It’s fine.” The words come fast, and Castiel knows that Dean can hear the lie for what it is.

“Cas, I just-”

“It’s _fine_.” But Castiel’s voice cracks when he speaks, a clear indication that it’s _not fine, not at all._

The silence that stretches between them is hard, unkind. Castiel can feel his anxiety levels start to spike. Just when he’s about to open his mouth, however, Dean starts to move, gathers his things and shoves them in his backpack.

“I should go,” he says, though he speaks softly.

Castiel just nods, dumbstruck. He doesn’t stand to walk Dean out, but he does flinch when he hears his front door shut and Dean’s car start. No kiss goodbye - not even the word itself, Dean just up and leaves.

He wipes a few tears from his eyes before he scrubs his face with his sleeve, then ventures downstairs.

Cooking has always been a reprieve for him; a chaotic mess that eventually leads to something delicious, occasionally beautiful, the former not dependent on the latter. Castiel is on his third batch of cookies when his dad comes home.

Chuck just stands in the doorway, observing his son for a moment. Finally, he speaks. “You wanna talk about it?”

Castiel sighs. “I think we got in a fight.”

His dad’s eyebrows crease. “He’s not pushing you, is he? I mean physically.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not about that. I was helping him with his math homework, and we got on the subject of college. He says his grades aren’t good enough to go, but I disagreed, told him that it doesn’t matter, that there are smaller colleges he could start at if he wanted, like some of the community ones in town.”

“He didn’t like it?”

Setting the timer for a few minutes, Castiel fiddles with his apron strings for a moment before he turns his back to his father and starts on the dirty dishes in the sink. “It’s like he’s _convinced_ himself he’s not smart enough for it.”

“Maybe he thinks the whole idea of college is to stressful?”

Castiel shrugs. “I don’t think he meant to be mean, but he turned the subject on me. Asked, ‘ _what about you?’_ and I...”

“You?...”

“I was honest. Told him that I want to go, but don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for it.”

Chuck walks over and turns the faucet off. He hands Castiel a dish towel to dry off with, and waits patiently. When Cas tosses the dish towel to the counter, hands no longer wet, Chuck pulls his son close and holds him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “No matter what you do - college or not, in person or online - I’m proud of you. You know that, right?”

Castiel nods, but the ‘thank you’ he wants to tell his father gets caught in his throat.

“I’m proud of you for going back to school this year. And if things don’t work out, if they get bad and you need to drop out, I’ll still be proud of you.”

Again, Castiel nods.

“And your brother’s proud of you, too.”

A soft sob escapes him, and the hug his father has him in tightens. “And I think that no matter what you decide to do, Dean’s gonna be proud of you, too.”

Cas knows he’s rubbing tears and snot into his father’s sweater, but he also knows that his dad doesn’t mind.

\- - - - - - -

Castiel thinks he’s okay, thinks he knows what to say to Dean to help mend their situation. He readies for school, and is proud of the way he doesn’t reach for his pillbox, even though he's feeling nervous and anxious over the conversation he knows they need to have. His dad drives him to school, since there’s a cold drizzle going on outside, what with it being less than a week and a half to Thanksgiving, and tells Castiel to call him if he needs a ride home since he’ll be around.

At school, Dean isn’t waiting for him at his locker, like usual. And while Castiel understands that while Dean may just need a little more time, it still makes his heart ache. Neither he nor Dean have exchanged any text messages since the incident, either, which makes the anxiety that much harder to deal with.

His first two periods pass by quickly enough, and gym does, too, though he doesn’t see Dean. His own class is sequestered in one of the side gyms, split into four teams that take turns on the small court for basketball. Garth isn’t on his team, and when it’s not his turn to play, he sits on the sidelines and thinks more about what he wants to say to Dean.

It all comes to a head at lunch, though, when he joins everyone else at their usual table and pulls out a container filled with cookies to share. Everyone descends on him, and the container is empty in a manner of seconds, but Dean is nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Dean?” Castiel asks, looking around.

Charlie and Garth look around the lunchroom, but shrug when they don’t see him.

“Might be at homework club,” Benny supplies, after he swallows the gigantic bite of cookie he’d taken. “I know he was havin’ trouble in math, and his teacher helps students out during lunch on Fridays.”

Castiel’s heart sinks. He appreciates Benny’s words, but feels that Dean has to be avoiding him.

In fifth period - art - the teacher switches up the assigned seating chart, and Castiel counts himself lucky for the first time that day when Benny is assigned to the station next to his. They share a small smile, and Castiel basks in the fact that he actually has _friends_ now, even if he was only introduced to them because he’s Dean’s True Mate. Just last week had been another movie night, this time at Benny’s house. Cas had met Benny’s mom, and had been complimented on the apple turnovers he’d brought. Dean hadn’t shown up that night, what with helping out at the scrap yard for a man he called ‘uncle Bobby,’ even though Cas suspected they weren’t _actually_ related by blood. But Cas hadn’t felt awkward in their company, even if his boyfriend wasn’t around, and it was a nice feeling that he’d been coasting on until recently.

He hadn’t had a panic attack in nearly three weeks, not since Dean had-

Castiel’s cheeks heat at the memory of Dean’s lips pressed to his neck, of being held tight in Dean’s arms as he sat astride his lap.

He goes into sixth period with high hopes.

Within minutes, however, those hopes are dashed.

Dean’s chair is empty.

Not even his backpack is slung over the back of the chair, and it takes Castiel until he hears the bell for class to start to know that Dean must be skipping to avoid him.

Castiel is resolved, however. Maybe Dean just needs a little time.

When Thursday rolls around, and Cas has seen Dean all week both in gym and English class, but not at Cas’ locker in the mornings or at their table at lunch, Castiel finds himself at a loss over what to do.

Finally, _finally_ , he gathers the nerve to text Dean.

 **Castiel Novak (12:22 pm):** We need to talk.

 **Dean Winchester (12:22 pm):** k. when + where?

 **Castiel Novak (12:23 pm):** After school. By the back of the gym, near the football field?

 **Dean Winchester (12:24 pm):**  how about in the parking lot instead? by my car?

 **Castiel Novak (12:25 pm):** Fine.

When the lunch bell rings, Castiel is sick to his stomach. Ten minutes into science, he excuses himself to the bathroom, where he takes one of his pills, swallowing it dry as he sits on the lid of the toilet and tries to keep himself from a panic attack.

In art, Benny seems on edge, concerned in a way that actually makes Castiel feel a little better. “Has Dean told you anything about what’s going on?”

Benny shrugs. “Says the two of you are still figuring stuff out, but he never really goes into much detail. I’m guessing, by the way the two of you are acting, that you got into some kind of fight, right?”

Cas sighs, his brush stilling. He doesn’t much like acrylic paint, doesn’t like the way it smells. He swallows, struggling to find words. “Does Dean think he’s stupid or something?”

That earns a contemplative look from Benny. “I don’t think he thinks he’s stupid, but I reckon he doesn’t think of himself as particularly smart, either. Dean’s never really thought that well of himself, and with an old man like his, I can’t find I blame him.”

“I can’t say I’m overly fond of his father, either. He’s not... He doesn’t-”

“I don’t think that mother of his would stand for it, if John laid a hand on her boys like that, but I’ve heard his dad say some underhanded crap to Dean before. You and I are on the same page for that; I don’t care much for John.”

Cas swallows. Parental abuse is a sore subject for him. “Is Mr. Winchester ever outright mean? Or is it all passive aggressive?”

Benny pauses. “Can’t really say. Dean’s never said much about it, but he’s not really the type to go to other people with his problems.”

Castiel doesn’t know if his conversation with Benny helps at all. When he walks into his English class, Dean is talking to Mrs. Harvelle at her desk, looking somewhat chastised. Mrs. Harvelle doesn’t look to happy, if the hand on her hip and her pointed finger is any indication, but Cas is too far away from them to hear any of the conversation.

After the bell rings, class passes without much incident; they read two chapters of their current book silently. Then, when everyone is finished, Mrs. Harvelle asks them to share their thoughts on it, what they did or didn’t like.

When the final bell rings, Dean doesn’t wait for Cas to finish putting his things away. For a few minutes, Cas worries that Dean won’t end up waiting for him at all. He slips into the bathroom and takes another pill when he realizes his hands are shaking.

 **Dean Winchester (3:37 pm):** did you still wanna meet with me?

Finding himself somewhat relieved that Dean hasn’t ditched him, Cas hustles out of the main doors and into the student parking lot. Dean’s leaning against his car, arms crossed, and looking, of all things, somewhat frightened.

Cas approaches him slowly, cautiously.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, tentativeness creeping into his voice.

And it’s then that Cas realizes he’s not the only one unsure about their relationship, unsure of what to do, what comes next. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to fight any more.”

Dean looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “I, uh. I don’t want to fight at all.”

Cas nods. “I’m not good with people, Dean. Outside of my family, I don’t think I’ve ever had a relationship, _a friendship_ , for the last ten years of my life. Before I met you, I think the only other person I talked to with any regularity that I wasn’t directly related to was my _therapist_.”

The look on Dean’s face is a sad one, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Castiel cuts him off.

“I don’t know a lot about you.”

Dean’s brow furrows.

Castiel sighs. “I don’t know a lot about you... but I know _enough_. I know you’re kinder than you let on, you’re loyal, you love your friends and family fiercely, and you’re _far_ smarter than you seem to think you are. Which is why I got so upset when you put yourself down like you did, when you implied that just because you don’t get straight A’s that you’re not college material. And if you don’t _want_ to go to college, that’s fine. But I don’t want you to _not_ go just because you don’t think you’re smart enough, don’t think you’re good enough. Because you are. Any college would be lucky to have you.”

Dean stands there in stunned silence, looking all the part as though he’s been slapped in the face. His mouth opens and close a few times, like he’s trying to find the right words, but eventually just shakes his head and smiles. “You’re really something, you know that, Cas?”

Castiel sees one of Dean’s hand raise for just a moment before he drops it.

But Castiel knows what Dean’s looking for, because he feels like he needs it, too; a physical connection. He steps forward, drops his backpack at his feet, and winds his arms around Dean’s neck, shoving his face right into the crook and inhaling deeply. Mint and coriander, with hints of pine, flood his system, and the tension begins to ease from his body.

As Dean winds his arms tightly around Cas’ waist, bringing them closer, he presses a kiss to Cas’ temple. “The same goes for you,” he whispers. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Castiel feels as though he’s been touch-starved, with the way he shivers as Dean rubs his hands up and down Cas’ back. The side of Cas’ face gets peppered with sweet, little kisses, until, not satisfied, Castiel pulls back and presses a kiss to Dean’s lips.

Against him, Dean groans.

It’s easy to open his mouth, let Dean’s tongue press inwards, against his own. Dean tastes sweet, like soda, or maybe chocolate, and it makes Cas’ head swim.

The want for physical contact is new to him, this desire to just be _near_ Dean, be touched by him. Cas suspects it has something to do with their True Mate status, but he doesn’t put too much thought into it. After all, he never in a million years imagined he’d meet his True Mate, had honestly never hoped to. And while things aren’t easy between them, everything is moving further away from ‘difficult’ than Castiel thought possible.

A whistle from behind them startles the two enough that they separate, a deep blush rising to color Castiel’s cheek. Dean just smiles at him, though, and they both turn their heads to see Charlie and Jo walking closer.

“The two of you are coming to my birthday party this weekend, right?” Charlie says, smiling.

Castiel nods. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Charlie smile widens, turns devious. “And you’re still okay with making my cake?”

Cas laughs. “Yes, I’m still making your cake. Carrot with cream cheese frosting.”

“You’re the best!” Charlie says pumping her hands above her head in victory, then waves at he and Dean as she and Jo start toward Charlie’s car.

“You spoil them, with all your baking,” Dean playfully chides, raising an eyebrow and giving Castiel a pointed look.

Rolling his eyes, Cas shrugs. “You just want to keep my baking skills to yourself.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. “You got me,” he admits. He points with his thumb to his car behind him. “You need a ride?”

“Sure,” Cas answers back with his own smile, rounding the body of the car and climbing into the passenger’s seat when Dean leans across and unlocks it.

“Hey,” Dean ventures after a while. “I just realized I don’t know when your birthday is.”

Cas freezes for a moment. “Oh. It’s, uh, it’s September 18th.”

Dean looks shocked. “Your birthday passed, and you didn’t tell me?”

There it is, that feeling of dread, of discomfort, that Castiel is so familiar with. “I’m not big on celebrating it.”

“But, I didn’t even get a chance to get you a present or anything, Cas.”

Castiel bites his lip. “Like I said, I’m not big on celebrating it.”

While Dean doesn’t look completely convinced, he drops the subject, and Castiel is more than thankful for it. The pull out of the parking lot, and in no time at all, they are idling in Cas’ driveway.

“Thank you, for the ride home.”

Dean smiles over at him, then grins when Castiel inches closer so they can share a goodbye kiss. But when Cas moves to pull away, he feels Dean’s fingers card through the hair at the base of his skull, and his breath catches. Dean looks as though he wants to ask Cas if it’s okay for him to touch like this - his pupils blown wide, his cheeks a rosy hue - but Cas doesn’t give him the chance. He pushes forward, captures Dean’s lips in another heated kiss, moves to fist the hand that’s not keeping him upright into Dean’s soft cotton shirt.

“Cas,” Dean groans into his mouth. “Cas, I -”

Dean’s phone starts to ring, a Led Zeppelin tune Castiel has become familiar with, and the two of them pull away. Dean digs his phone out of his pocket with a grimace, answers it with a flick of his thumb. “Hey, Bobby. What’s up?”

Castiel is close enough that he can hear the gruff voice on the other side of the phone. “Got a few projects that I could use an extra hand with, if you’ve got the time.”

Looking somewhat conflicted, Dean’s eyes skirt up to meet Castiel’s.

In response, Cas sighs. “I’ve got homework,” he says, but he smiles softly, letting Dean know he’s not completely heartbroken.

Dean nods, then turns away. “Yeah. Yeah, I can make it by. Gimmie about twenty, alright?”

“Gate’s unlocked,” the gruff voice responds before the line dies.

Castiel leans over and plants a kiss on Dean’s cheek. “Thanks again for the ride home,” he says, before he grabs his bag and slips from the car.

Dean waits for him to unlock the door and wave goodbye before he pulls out.

Once inside, Castiel locks the door and presses his back to it. He feels hot all over, like he’s been sitting out in the sun too long, his skin almost itchy with the feeling. He takes off his tan trench coat and hangs it by the hooks on the wall, then toes off his shoes. As he enters his room, he strips his sweater vest off, then unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt.

As he sits on his bed, he swallows. His limbs feel heavy - his _head_ feels heavy. He lays back on the bed, his legs hanging off the side, his breath starting to come in shallower bursts. He can’t help it; his mind wanders to just a few weeks prior, of when he had climbed astride Dean’s lap in the Impala, had come in his pants with Dean’s lips on his neck, hands on his hips.

He raises his hand up and presses his fingertips to his neck, imagines it’s Dean’s teeth against his skin. Cas gasps at the sensation, shuts his eyes tight as he pictures Dean pressing a litany of kisses along his neck, under his jaw, behind his ear.

Without realizing it until he’s actually doing it, Cas presses the heel of his hand against the outline of his cock within the confines of his pants. He cries out, bites his lip, knowing that he’s alone in the house but worried someone will hear him all the same. But the sensation isn’t enough, not quite. He unbuttons his pants, pulls the zipper down, frees himself from the confines of the denim.

It’s doesn’t take much for him to climax; he’s shuddering in no time, spilling onto his hand, dripping down onto his skin. It takes him a few moments to catch his breath.

His afterglow is short-lived, however. Too soon, the seemingly ever-present feeling of dread creeps over him, spider-webbing like struck ice down his spine. As good as it feels to kiss Dean, he knows he can’t never give his True Mate _this_ , can never offer himself up completely.

Cas cleans himself up with tears in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: mild anxiety issues, panic issues/mild panic attack, masturbation


End file.
